


The Arrangement

by RurouniHime



Series: The Arrangement series [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Community: help_haiti, Confessions, Domestic, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, From Sex to Love, Introspection, Jealousy, M/M, Making Out, Moving In Together, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Requited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 65,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's worked for years. Why change it now?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Arrangement

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I'd put this fic up on AO3, finally. ^__^

The sun slanted through the window in long stripes over the floor when Harry finally got out of the bed. He stood and rolled his neck, smiling widely. “Well. I certainly consider that time well spent.”

A snort. “As well you should. If I’d known we had a time limit, I wouldn’t have asked you over.”

Harry grinned, shaking his head. He reached for his trousers. “Bloody knew I had to go back to work. Pretending won’t get you my sympathy, you prick.”

“Excuse me for wanting to wallow through my afternoon like the slothful, spoiled fop that I am. Most people do, you know. Especially after something that good. Fuck. That settles it. I don’t think I’m going to move till tomorrow morning.”

Harry buckled his belt. He could still feel the sweat beading along his chest and shoulders. Bloody hell. Good was an understatement. But then, there wasn’t a time when it hadn’t been. “Hmm.”

Draco sat back against the headboard, long, naked legs half draped in his bed sheet, looking utterly comfortable and twice as lazy. “What, Harry?”

Harry turned a smirk over his shoulder and studied the arched ceiling. “I like this flat, you know.” He stretched his arms overhead, feeling the delicious popping in his back. He frowned thoughtfully. “This isn’t the same one you had before, is it?”

A soft sound, like a _tsk_ , came from the bed behind him. “No.”

Harry glanced at Draco out of one eye. “It’s hard to keep track; you’ve moved so much.”

He did not miss the way Draco’s chin dropped, or the tiny clench of the fingers of his right hand. The blond began to untangle himself from the sheets, and Harry didn’t miss the forced nonchalance in every movement either. “I thought for sure you’d remember the kitchen from the last one, Harry. At least.”

Harry stole back across the room as Draco stood, and slipped his arms firmly around his middle. Draco jumped infinitesimally and Harry rested his chin on his shoulder. “Now. How could I possibly forget the divet in _that_ counter?” he purred into his ear. 

A sigh went through Draco’s body. Fingers squeezed Harry’s arm. Harry turned his head and breathed in the scent of sweat and old cologne from Draco’s throat.

“You were kinky enough to put it there,” the other man bantered lightly. “Had to give them my bloody deposit.”

“Hmm. And how shall I pay you back for that?”

Draco allowed the soft tonguing along the arch of his neck for a few seconds, and then rolled his head back with a sigh. “That’ll get you nothing, Potter.”

“It’ll be a first, then,” Harry chuckled. Draco let out a melodramatic huff and bent to grab his boxers from the floor, craftily evading Harry’s embrace. 

“ _Excuse_ me. I’d like to get some comfortable clothing on so I can get back into bed and sleep my life away, thank you.”

Harry released him and made for his shirt where it had been tossed over a chair. He heard the soft whuff of the mattress as Draco fell back onto it, and the equally contented murmur that followed. Harry slid one arm into a sleeve and then had to work at turning the other outside-in again. “Still refuse to sleep starkers, hm? Someone’s going to have to train you at that.”

Draco settled himself back against the headboard and shot a pained glare at him. “Just because you’re an aberration doesn’t mean we all have to be.”

“But it’s so precious, Draco,” Harry simpered. “I remember that time in Perth. Completely smashed; you could barely keep your eyes open. But you still managed to crawl out of bed and find your shorts in the… in the loo, wasn’t it?”

Draco flipped him two fingers, not bothering to open his eyes. “Go back to work, golden boy. I’ve no time for you just now.”

Harry shrugged, grinning. “Fine, wear them. I’ll just snap you awake by the waistband when I come back tonight.”

A small smile played about the blond’s lips. He was already drifting; his face had slipped into the rare, open expression Harry had first become addicted to seven years ago. He doubted Draco even knew when he was making it. So much the better. 

“I’ll just leave the wards down, shall I?” Draco murmured.

“Sounds like a plan.” Harry paused, holding his socks in one hand. He listened to the steady, slowing breathing of the man in the bed. The room was almost too warm, and smelled sweetly of sweat and old daylight. Then there was that teasing, delicate scent of Draco’s wash detergent. Like sandalwood.

He knelt at the side of the bed, smiling faintly. Draco’s eyelids fluttered in some half-dream, and Harry inched his hand over the crumpled duvet until it rested just centimeters from Draco’s. “Would you hex me if I told you I dreamt of this?” he asked softly, more to himself than to his companion.

Draco did not twitch, but his voice came, quite a bit more clearly than Harry had expected. “No, but I’d hope you had a more exciting social life.”

Harry laughed, a bit belatedly. “Alas, I don’t. Afraid I’m rather useless nowadays. All work and no play, as they say.” He squeezed Draco’s fingers playfully. Draco cracked one sleepy eye.

“My gods, Harry, what are you still doing here? Weasel One will probably send your late arse off to Egypt again, and then I’ll just have to get up and set my wards. Prick.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Harry said loftily. “Might just stay here. You have ginger digestives in your cabinet, right?”

“Twat. Only want me for my biscuits. Oh, horrors, that’s why you come back so often. And here I was, thinking it was the sex.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll restock your fridge on Monday before I head back.”

“Why, thank you. Such a thoughtful twat.”

Harry smirked at him. “Yes. I am rather thoughtful, aren’t I?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “At least I get a fantastically thorough fucking for every loaf of bread you devour. Makes up for lost sleep.”

“Alright, I get the hint, princess. I’m going. And don’t sleep for a thousand years. I intend to eat one of those loaves tonight after we’re done with all that fantastically thorough nonsense.” 

“Well. Hurry back, darling,” Draco drawled, waving one hand absently in Harry’s direction.

Harry smiled and stood, picking up his socks once more. He let his gaze travel over Draco’s slender, still-damp torso, over the dips just above his boxers, down to the five toes peeking out from beneath the carelessly tossed sheet. “Might just be easier if I lived here, you know. Then I could buy all your food with purpose.”

“And with my money, I suppose,” Draco snorted. “I should just start an account at Gringott’s for Potter’s Post-Shag Starvation. Be easier for everyone involved.”

“Be easier still if I really did live here,” Harry responded idly, then wondered when the shock of what he’d just said would hit him.

Draco’s eyes opened slowly. The blond glanced at him once, then really looked. The five toes sticking out from under the sheet curled slightly. Draco’s brow creased and he looked away.

“We tried that, Harry,” he muttered. “It didn’t work.”

“No.” Harry sat down on the bed carefully and squeezed Draco’s hand. “We tried it and broke it off because we were each headed somewhere different. But if you’ll notice, we keep coming back to each other.”

Draco didn’t respond. But his breathing had grown more rapid. Harry could feel his heartbeat thudding through his fingertips. 

“It’s convenient is all,” Draco said at last. His shoulders gave a twitch as he spoke, and he looked up at Harry with one eyebrow cocked. “You’re in town often enough.”

“And you’ve got very select lunch hours, haven’t you?” Harry murmured. Draco’s gaze caught his for a second, and then flicked away. He reached up and ruffled a hand through disparate blond locks. Harry watched, mesmerized. “Convenient and coincidental, yeah?”

Draco snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself, Harry. Or me. It’s a dull routine.”

“We have a routine, then?”

Draco rolled his eyes at him with the painstaking grace of the nobility he’d been born into. Only Draco Malfoy could make the image work in this day and age. “Oh, for Godric’s sake. You of all people know we do. It’s been rather diverting till now, I must say. I’m forced to be relaxed all day at work because there’s absolutely no possible way to hoard any stress with the sheer amount of climaxing I do during weeks such as this. Not only that, but the shagging I get is at the hands of a stunning piece of heroic eye-candy, and not some ridiculous mouse of a closeted gay stock-boy, which is more than I can say for… well, any of my coworkers.” He sat forward, lips twisting into a smirk. “And I like to think I do assist you in working out the kinks you build up fumbling with curses in dark, dank holes all over the world. It’s a delightful exchange, and I’m more than willing to provide my half of it. You provide yours, and everyone goes home happy at the end of the weekend.”

Harry looked down at Draco’s hand, so close to his. “Yes, but then, you’re already at home.”

Draco heaved an exasperated sigh. “And what exactly are you saying, Potter? The arrangement falling short of your expectations? Because it’s fulfilled mine for a good three years, you know.”

Harry sat up. “Four, for me,” he said. “But I don’t think I’ll be counting this year, actually. Fulfillment’s… a loaded word.”

“Well, do be bold and tell me if I’m not quite vigorous enough with my technique, Potter. I’d hate to think you’d become disenchanted with my abilities. I suppose you’d always be up for more practice, at any rate.”

“No,” Harry said softly. He couldn’t… quite… bring himself to take his eyes from Draco. “Still enchanted, I assure you.”

Draco’s smirk widened into a careless grin, and Harry grabbed his hand at last, unable to stand the mirthless eyes above that smile. “ _Very_ enchanted.”

Draco’s grin slipped. His eyes darted, and the tip of his tongue came out to wet his lips. It was a nervousness Harry remembered as if he’d seen it only yesterday. But it had not been his to see for some time. Youthful. Something clenched in relief inside him, that Draco’s five years of self-detachment had not managed to take that innocence from him.

“You can’t be serious, Harry,” he said in a low, flat voice.

“Draco, I’m afraid that at least one thing has not changed, and that is that you are the only thing I am ever truly serious about.”

Draco stared at him. His eyes hooded and he sank back against the headboard. “I don’t think I want to go down this road again right now.” His words, as callous as they were, lost their edge in the vulnerability slipping up underneath. Hesitation behind it, however slight. Harry waited, and Draco straightened his shoulders as if shedding a second skin. “We have… What we have, Harry, it’s something that works. For both of us. We don’t get in each other’s way like we used to.”

Harry considered. “Something that works… and something that fulfills are two very different things, Draco. We made a choice five years ago, and it was the right one. Then. It fulfilled me, and I know it fulfilled you.” Draco’s gaze dropped from his, and then rose again. Harry went on. “But this isn’t then. This is now.”

The blond looked away with another sigh. “Harry, I don’t want to get in your way now, either. I’m a potions licenser. You’re a curse breaker. You have to go where the curses are. It’s what you wanted.”

Harry traced the fine line of Draco’s profile with his eyes. Striking. Any artist would consider him beyond worthy. But Harry knew those arches, those curves and sweeps of pale skin, better than any artist could. He moved closer, crawling across the bed until Draco was forced to draw his legs up to make room.

“Yes. But I also want you. No less than I want to break curses, and no less than I wanted you seven years ago.” He spread his arms and smiled up at the ceiling. “Gods, Draco, I finally… finally know what I want. And I know it because I can _see_ myself being perfectly happy. Just over… the horizon.”

Draco’s momentary hesitation was enough to dampen the lofty grin he eventually responded with. He cocked an eyebrow at Harry over the tops of his knees. “Are you suggesting that I haven’t made you perfectly happy these weekends? Because you sounded excruciatingly _happy_ not ten minutes ago. Actually, I can’t be sure; you were positively incoherent at the time.”

Harry exhaled through his nose and crept closer. “Oh, I was excruciatingly happy. I’ve no complaints.” He reached up and settled his hands on Draco’s knees. The other man had gone very still. His pupils were dilated and he was staring straight at Harry. “But I can’t say I was fulfilled. Draco, because I can’t lie to you.”

He nudged Draco’s knees apart and moved into the space between, sliding his hands down the outsides of his thighs. He reached the lower hem of Draco’s boxers and edged past it, grasping lightly at the firm muscle there. Draco’s flesh rippled into goosebumps under his fingers. 

“I haven’t just had an epiphany, Draco, I can assure you,” Harry murmured, inching his hands higher. “I’ve thought about this for some months now. Almost mentioned it once or twice. But there were… other things… going on…” He stroked in tiny, steady circles with both thumbs, just along the backs of Draco’s thighs. The blond inhaled sharply and Harry dipped his head to nuzzle at the base of that smooth, creamy throat. This was truly one of his strengths, and if Draco would acknowledge no other, then he would have to remind him.

“But I just can’t keep silent about it any longer.” Harry paused to breathe, tasting Draco’s scent on his tongue. “I want you—I want _us_ , again. And I think you do as well.” 

Draco tensed, all ten of his toes curling. He gripped Harry’s left hand where it skated against his bare thigh, but did not make an effort to stop its slow slide up and down. “Mmm—Damn you. Resourceful bastard…”

“I have to be, with you,” Harry murmured. “Otherwise I wouldn’t survive one night…”

He squeezed the soft skin just above Draco’s leg and felt the other man roll his hips slightly toward him. Traced that glorious curved throat with his other hand. Draco let out a soft sound and began to edge backward. His clutching gained more purpose and he gently pushed Harry away. “That’s… very nice… mm, Harry. But I think I prefer a clear head at the moment.”

“And why’s that?”

Draco’s hands tightened around Harry’s, finally forcing them to a stop. His eyes were a clear, steady grey. “Because I’m liable to agree to anything under your ministrations. Even…” he took a slow breath, “things I shouldn’t agree to.”

Harry straightened, studying his companion carefully. “Are you saying… you shouldn’t want it? Or that you don’t want it?”

The words were difficult to voice. It was _the_ question, after all, come perhaps a little too soon, for all his preparation. Harry met Draco’s gaze steadily, but could read nothing more than careful concealment there. At last Draco looked away, glancing about the room as if getting his bearings.

“I’d like to know the difference between the two,” he answered, with cautious aplomb. He looked at Harry again sharply. “Thus. The need for clear-headedness.”

Harry smiled wistfully. “You can’t be clearheaded when it comes to me, Draco. Part of the problem, if I remember.”

Draco gave him a halfhearted glare. “There was a time I would have thrown you out for a lie like that.”

Harry snorted and touched Draco’s nose with the tip of his thumb. “Yeah. Maybe back when it _was_ a lie.”

Draco let out a huff and finally removed Harry’s other hand from his hip completely. Harry sat back, suppressing a shiver at the loss of contact. Draco drew his knees up close to his chest, slightly parted. A shield, but not insurmountable. The meaning was clear to Harry.

“You never answered my question,” he pressed gently. 

Awareness stole over Draco’s face. His lips thinned… eyes narrowed. Harry let himself be studied.

“Maybe I don’t have an answer.”

Harry shook his head. “You have one. I can see it.”

Draco looked down at his hands where they rested against his thighs. “And what if I don’t want it, Harry?” he asked quietly.

The silence shifted in heavy waves. Harry took a moment to gather himself. “Then that’s what I need to hear,” he answered softly. Steadily. He reached and squeezed Draco’s hand briefly before drawing away again.

Draco exhaled and shut his eyes. He shook his head. “That easy, is it? I just say the words—”

“And I let it go,” Harry finished. “I don’t ask again.”

Draco raised his head, annoyance twisting his features. “And then what? Our arrangement still stands? Or you play the martyr and disappear?”

Harry sighed, leaning back. “Come off it, Draco. There are no martyrs here.”

The other man rubbed a hand over his face. “Well, fuck. And the afternoon started out _so_ well.”

Harry cocked his head, but said nothing. 

Draco pursed his lips at him. “What? Can’t I just have an afternoon of lazy, unassuming, messy sex once in a while? This was never going to be some unorthodox form of commitment, Potter. You knew that.”

“So did you,” Harry countered. Draco’s eyebrows shot up. His lip curled.

“Yes. I did. And I had no intention of changing that. It works, you said it yourself. And there’s no need to pretend it doesn’t, Harry, so don’t. We made a good situation out of a bad one. But that’s all it is. Don’t start tacking rules onto it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Harry said, lifting his chin. He squinted at Draco. “The question was about something totally different, and you know it.”

Draco met his gaze for so long Harry nearly forgot what had been said. Then the blond dropped his eyes. “Maybe it’s too different, Harry. It’s a huge change. Not one I’m sure either of us can handle.”

“Yes, it is huge.”

“Harry…” Draco’s hands clenched. When he looked up again, his face seemed older. Wearier. “Harry, you do know you’re not the only person I’ve been sleeping with. Right?”

Harry nodded. Drew a breath against the pang of those words. “Yes. And the reverse is true.”

Something dark flashed through Draco’s eyes before he could stop it. His face tightened back into stillness. Harry reached out again and touched Draco’s fingers gently. “No rules, Draco. I have always been well aware of that.”

The serenity returned haltingly to Draco’s body. “I know.” He sighed. “It’s a good system, Harry. I don’t think I want it to change.”

Harry was quiet for a long moment. He raised his hand and brushed fingers through Draco’s hair, letting the soft, sweaty bangs fall back into place. “But it’s bothering you.”

Draco pulled his head away and looked at Harry frankly. “Something is always bothering me, Harry. The trials of being me. Of living. Let it go.”

“You used to tell me what was bothering you,” Harry murmured. “You still can, you know.”

Draco’s knees came together and he straightened, drawing even further away. “No, Harry, sometimes I can’t. Or rather, I don’t want to. What I used to do, what we used to—” He waved a hand through the air and Harry saw that it was shaking. “It just doesn’t apply anymore. It’s… neither here nor there. It’s not about what I want anymore, Harry, this is my life. My life. My cares, my worries. It doesn’t involve anyone else anymore.”

But the last sentence held sadness, and Harry leaned forward. “It does involve you, though, Draco. What you want and… and need. Don’t throw away the importance of that.”

Draco’s eyes flashed. “Don’t you think it’s a little more complicated than that now, Harry? That more goes into it than who I _want_ to fuck, or who makes me _feel_ good, or who… who I…” He shook his head, exhaling softly. “I can’t just… Harry, it can’t be about desire anymore.”

“Draco.” Harry fixed him with a piercing stare. “I asked what you wanted.”

“What I want?” Draco’s voice broke and he smiled a sharp, frantic smile. He looked up at the ceiling and Harry had the feeling he was trying desperately not to laugh. “Merlin, Harry, get off your high horse. We’re not kids anymore, trying for something that was doomed to fail. No, it was, Potter. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better for everyone!” Draco glanced at him and his face softened into something wounded, something that had been locked away for a long time. His hand moved restlessly, then stilled. “It was nice—wonderful. It was absolutely wonderful, I won’t ever deny that. But it’s over. Harry, it failed, and life went on.”

Harry reached where Draco wouldn’t – couldn’t, perhaps – and stroked those pale, elegant fingers. They not only knew him, truly and completely, they understood him as well, they had studied him. Pleased him. Opened him wide from skin to soul and never once dropped him. “And if it were something you wanted?”

Draco looked away, shaking his head. Back and forth. “Even if it is something I want, Harry—No. No, it, that doesn’t matter enough anymore. It only goes so far—” He stopped. Grimaced. “I have to do what will help me. There’s a difference—”

“ _Draco_.” Harry took his shoulders firmly, forcing Draco’s eyes to his. “Just… tell me what’s wrong.” Draco’s mouth opened indignantly, but Harry squeezed his shoulders. “No, tell me the truth. Not your reasoning, not your… Draco, we used to be able to talk about anything. When did we reach the point where we couldn’t anymore?”

Draco looked at him mutely and Harry sighed, suddenly at a loss. “If that’s where this arrangement has…I never wanted to lose that, do you understand? If we’ve lost the ability to talk to each other like we—” He had to fight for his composure. “I just want to know what you want. What you want, Draco, gods, not the rationale behind why you won’t take it.”

“Harry, you have to understand that rationale,” Draco countered hotly. “I can’t just… ‘take it’ anymore. I won’t. It’s not going to help me, and I will not set myself up for a fall!”

“It’s me,” Harry hissed, and Draco stilled, staring at him. “Look at me, look me in the eye, and tell me what you want.”

“That’s not import—”

“It’s important to me, Draco, aren’t you listening? I don’t care if it’s not something I’ll want to hear. I care about the truth. Stop beating around the bush and tell me the truth!”

Draco’s shoulders rose and fell in weak, barely sustained breaths. “The truth might not be the best thing for me in this case, Harry.”

Harry searched the other man’s face, the deep lines marring his brow, the strain about his mouth. He brushed his fingers over Draco’s cheek. “Maybe you think that I haven’t been telling the absolute truth with you, then,” he said quietly.

A haunted look crossed Draco’s face. His eyes widened, pupils dilating, and Harry knew that it had not even occurred to Draco to consider that. He ran his thumb over Draco’s chin, knowing he’d hit a mark, seeing both shame and accusation in those familiar stormcloud irises. And… fear. It was not meant to surface, but it had. The truth of it, at last.

“Draco, this is not some whim of mine. Some excuse to revisit our glory days. This is my truth, here, now, and I have questioned it often enough to tear it to shreds many times over. I’ve given it to you, all of it, even if you aren’t sure I have, and I just want to ask you – beg you – to give me the same courtesy. No matter what your answer is. You give it into my care and I will lock it away where you’ll never have to see it again. I won’t let it hurt you. I swear it. Just… please. Please trust me with it.”

Draco’s face shuddered. His shoulders were trembling so, so slightly. Harry stroked up and down his arms, already seeing the threads there, the pain of the unfinished life their departure had interrupted, the quiet yearning and the sacrifices made to stop hurting. To let it go. To move on. The agony and confusion of being wrenched back – for a stark instant, Harry hated himself – and the slow resignation.

…trust?

At last Draco shivered. “First, I need you to know that I can’t… do this. Again. If that’s what it comes to. I won’t go through what we… what…”

Harry nodded and Draco fell silent. Looked at him for an interminable, searing moment. Then… 

“I don’t want… anyone else. I don’t want to be with anyone else, I don’t want to feel anyone else inside me, and if I thought for an _instant_ …” Draco took a deep breath. “…that you wanted the same…”

Harry stroked his fingers through Draco’s hair and found himself speaking, very quietly. “I thought maybe you’d found someone. Earlier, over breakfast, when you nearly shrugged me off. You’d found someone else and were telling me to stop. And I would. Draco, I wouldn’t do this anymore, if I thought you were happy, I’d—” He grimaced before he could stop himself. “I’d let it go.”

Draco let out a soft, sad laugh. “Gods. Harry, how do we let ourselves keep missing each other like this?”

“Draco…” Harry edged closer, until the heat of Draco’s side was beating into his own through his shirt. “Are we really missing each other this time?”

Draco’s breath caught, the stuttering hiss of lost words. Harry leaned into the silence, spoke into it, nudging his nose gently against Draco’s. “I don’t want to miss you. I’ve missed enough as it is. And I don’t… don’t think we are missing here. And gods, Draco, I have missed people, trust me. But I know how I felt when… During those months. When you were with that bloke from Yorkshire. Hell, I’ve been missing everyone I ever considered dating for the last five years. And I know now that no matter what you say today, I will keep missing people for the rest of my life. I might settle down with one of them, but I don’t _want_ to just settle down. I want to breathe and feel and taste that person, and I want that person to be you. With all my heart, Draco, I want you in my veins, and I want to ache with the knowledge that I will go home each night and find you there.”

Draco’s breathing had become ragged, a quick pull and sigh. When he finally met Harry’s eyes, his own were glittering with moisture.

“I want you,” Draco rasped, the sudden desperation making Harry’s heart skip. “I want you, and not this week-by-week tryst, during times when we’re both single and I don’t feel guilty for thinking your name while I’m in someone else’s bed. I don’t want to share you with any other person, _ever_. Gods, Harry—”

“Come here,” Harry choked out, just before he pulled Draco to him, so hard their teeth clacked, and then Draco was gasping into his mouth, and kissing him as if he wanted to climb inside him, struggling to situate their bodies, but it was never close enough, not even with Draco wrapped around him, straddling his lap, hands tangled in his hair, and pressing full-bodied against him. Harry curled his hand tightly through the fine blond hair and leaned into Draco, feeling the soft hitch of his breath as he did, tilting his head… Draco’s tongue was warm and familiar and so, so welcome in his mouth, the touch of his lips the rekindling of some long-remembered dream, and Harry knew this body better than he knew his own, even. Knew it, and knew exactly what he could do with it, to it, what it could do to him. The only true weakness he had ever known he had, and Draco was right here, offering to be his weakness for the rest of his life, if only he would agree to be that vulnerable again. 

And Harry had already agreed wholeheartedly.

Draco gave a great shiver in his arms. Harry rubbed one hand soothingly over his lover's back as he waited for it to pass. When it didn't, when it became clear that Draco was... trembling, Harry tightened his hold, gathering Draco to him gently and steadily, carding his fingers through that blond hair. Experiencing Draco all over again: the hot flush of skin that Harry could never really explain to himself, how it was that Draco held so much heat and did not burn himself apart, the way his throat smelled and his mouth tasted, the silk and sinew of the hands clutching at his shoulders. Draco tried to caress him, to brush one hand over his cheek, but that hand shook so badly that Harry took it in his own, raised it to his mouth and pressed his lips to Draco's knuckles. Kissed each one in turn. Draco clung to him, heated exhalations skating over Harry's throat, and rode out his tremors in silence. Harry let him, wishing for all the world that he could pass some of his strength, his certainty, into the slender body in his arms. Draco's fingers wove with his and tightened almost painfully.

When at last the shivers receded, Draco leaned back. His lips slipped over Harry's cheek as they parted, and Harry was suddenly aware of the nakedness of the man he held. Not the bare skin, but the bared... everything. He sought Draco's gaze, needing to see that the other man understood, and when Draco finally lifted his eyes to Harry's, he saw that certainty and strength were not what his lover was lacking. Harry's breath seized in his chest at the depth of those eyes, the absence of walls he had not even known were there. It was all gone, all of it. And Harry was caught in it instead.

Draco shifted his weight slowly, eyes darting down under drooping lashes, and met Harry's mouth again in a tender kiss. It held nothing of the frenzy from before. Just recognition. Draco teased his lip with the tip of his tongue and Harry sank into the tentative touch and deepened it. Expanded it. Until Draco's body had begun to flush once more.

Reluctantly, Harry eased away. Draco's head dropped against his chest. His shoulders rose and fell. Harry reached and found Draco's hand again, bringing it up between their bodies. "Are you alright?"

"You know I'm not," Draco whispered. He shifted even closer, arms coming up to cradle Harry's shoulders. One long, pale leg was still curled around his waist, and Draco sighed luxuriantly. "Nor do I wish to be."

"Masochist."

"When the pain is this good..." Draco trailed off. Harry took the moment to retrace the lines and arcs of his lover’s back, learning the familiar expanse all over again.

"I have to go," he whispered, almost too softly to hear. Maybe he didn't want it to be heard. Maybe the excuse was all he needed to remain here, wrapped up in bed sheets and sunlight and Draco: he'd tried to go, and Draco had not heard him.

But the other man moved, and Harry had to weather the full weight of disconnection for the first time in years. Draco pulled back and looked at him mutely for so long that Harry had to touch him. “Draco. Just work. I promise.”

Draco’s mouth opened and closed silently. His eyes flickered down, and then he ran both his hands through Harry’s hair, layering the wayward strands back into place. "Well. Someone's got to fund this fool's errand."

Harry smiled and got an answering smirk in return. His hands resisted the loss of contact, however, and in the end, he lowered Draco all the way back to his sprawl against the headboard. Draco's face was open, yet still shyly watchful. Harry pressed a lingering kiss to his mouth, and it very nearly turned into something else, far more entangling and time consuming, before he managed to pull himself away and get to his feet.

Draco watched him straighten his shirt. He raised one slender finger, and Harry zeroed in on the wrinkle in his left trouser leg and slapped it smooth again. Draco's mouth curved faintly.

"Rest up, you," Harry said, and the smile bloomed into an easy leer.

"You just worry about yourself, Potter.”

Harry chuckled and pulled his socks and shoes onto his feet at last. Grabbed his coat and was heading for the door when Draco's voice stopped him.

"Harry."

He turned, and was momentarily startled. All trace of amusement had slipped from Draco's face, and his expression had somehow hollowed, curved inward. The blond licked his lips. His eyes roved over Harry a little too quickly. "Are we..." He gestured with one hand. "How are we?"

Harry smiled slowly. He decided to drink his fill of the image before him and saw by the flicker in Draco's eyes that he felt it as well. "Better than we've ever been. Alright?"

Draco's eyes shed their cowl at last. "Alright."

"Sweet dreams."

Harry was just about to pass through the door when Draco spoke. "I'll leave the wards down for you."

_And I certainly won't be late_ , Harry thought.

~tbc~


	2. An Evening in August

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of Draco and Harry's first week, dinner is required.

“Merlin Almighty, _finally_.” Draco stalked in from the kitchen, wrapped one hand around Harry’s shirt collar and pulled him toward the hall. Harry shrugged the rest of the way out of his coat and flung it back in the general direction of the foyer, then tried to set his briefcase down as gently as he could in the hallway. Draco turned around and smacked at his hand until he dropped it. “Come on, Potter. You’re already late.”

“I was only here three hours ago, you know,” Harry said, smirking.

Draco cast him a malevolent glare and dragged him into the bedroom. “Yes, I do know. And you should know that I have different needs when we’re _together_ , Harry. Things just don’t hold over like they used to; I’m entitled to more.”

Harry let Draco tug him fully into the room, and then fell backward with an _oof_ under the other man’s hard shove, landing on the bed. “That a fact?”

“Don’t patronize me, Potter. You’ve no idea the crate of snakes you’re opening.” He climbed up onto the bed, yanking at Harry’s tie with more than capable hands. Harry reached for his own belt buckle and Draco slapped his hands away—and then gave a huff and pulled them back to their task. “Oh, go on then. Faster anyway.”

“Ooh, you do have needs,” Harry teased, craning his neck as Draco yanked the tie free at last.

The blond grinned down at him with a decidedly worrisome glint in his eye. “Very specific ones. Right now, for instance, I needed to be inside you an hour ago. No delivery, Harry, very disconcerting. I might have to write a complaint.”

Harry let his face go slack and dropped his hands from his belt. “And what if I don’t want to do that?”

Draco’s fingers stilled on the buttons of his shirt. Eyes the colour of smoke narrowed and darkened, and he sat back on Harry’s thighs with a barely contained sigh. “Then of course, we won’t do it, Harry,” he muttered.

Harry let Draco resign himself for only two more seconds before taking hold of his hips and flipping him over on the bed, pressing his body full-length against Draco’s. His lover’s thighs tightened convulsively around his hips. Draco shuddered.

“To tell you the truth,” Harry murmured, smiling – undulating his body very pointedly, “I think I am running a bit late tonight.”

He bent and kissed Draco tenderly on the mouth, and his lover began to chuckle halfway through it. “Dreadfully so, Potter.” He wiggled swiftly down on the bed until he fit against Harry perfectly, all curves and warmth and long limbs. “But I’m going to have to stand firm about my personal requirements. This is never going to work if they aren’t met.”

Harry rolled back over with a dramatic sigh and flung his arms up over his head, hanging onto one of his wrists with his free hand. “In the interest of making this work, then.”

Draco raised himself up and bent over him again, peering hawkishly. “Harry.”

Harry rolled his eyes. He lurched upward and grabbed Draco’s shoulder, pulling him down into a long, messy kiss. “Malfoy. Don’t think this need of yours is a one-way street.”

“Oh, regardless of how it starts, it never ends that way, Harry, I can assure you.” He swung one leg back over Harry’s waist and reclaimed his mouth, making short work of his clothes. Harry forced himself to remain as still as possible as he was stripped, and was gratified to feel Draco’s hands slide up his bare arms at last and tangle their fingers together. 

“Never starts that… that way either… apparently,” Harry hissed out. Amazing how quickly Draco divested him of speech as well. Draco pressed down against him and rolled his hips slowly, agonizingly. Harry arched without planning it, and his lover nibbled at his throat with a little less control than he had before. 

“Oh, do hold still, Potter,” he breathed. “Can’t exactly attend to you if you’re going to be impatient.”

Harry wormed one hand free and caught Draco’s chin in gentle fingers, raising those clear grey eyes to meet his. “You…” 

He fell silent, unsure of what he’d been about to say. Draco searched his face and nodded, a tiny smile curving his mouth. “Relax. I’ll go slowly.”

“Just… been awhile,” Harry managed as Draco returned to his throat. He blinked against the insatiable heat pooling in his loins. He wanted to move. Move, or… move. His lover nodded again. 

“Alright then, Harry. How long? As your payment to me for being late.”

Harry looked at him. “It was with you.”

For a moment, Draco’s eyes flickered. He closed them and opened them again, drawing a deep breath. “That long?”

Harry nodded, feeling a flush crawl up his throat. But Draco’s gaze did not waver from  
his. He leaned in and soothed Harry’s panting lips with a soft kiss. Eased his tongue inside his mouth and stroked gently, lingering over every hollow and curve. At last, Harry had to turn his head for air, gasping. 

“Then I’ll make it that good again,” Draco whispered, the sound tickling across the shell of his ear. Harry could only nod. 

 

* * *

They were at the Indian Corner Café an hour later, Harry resting idly in his patio chair as his protesting muscles finally began to relax. Draco grinned at him from across the table and two mostly empty plates of vegetable samosas, and the sunset’s light beamed in over the rooftops in opals and violets, setting his hair aflame. Harry leered back, not bothering to hide it for their waitress’ peace of mind. The girl rolled her dark eyes visibly and flounced back inside with the finished plates to retrieve their entrees.

“Salazar, Potter. Now you’ll have to leave her some sort of extra tip to assuage the raging guilt that’s about to wash over you.”

Harry laughed and shifted with a contented groan. “Worth it. No one else has visual sex with me across a restaurant table like you do.”

Draco took an elegant sip from his water glass, pointing at Harry with one slender finger. “ _That_ was nothing but a mere undressing, I’ll have you know.”

“Mmm,” Harry hummed to himself. Draco’s fingers… It was almost surreal, looking at them. So perfectly kept, long and refined, and they had been all over and inside his body only thirty minutes ago. Their dinner arrived, and Harry found that he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at the waitress after all.

“Thank you,” Draco’s cultured voice intoned effortlessly. Harry lifted his own glass of water and turned toward the bustling thoroughfare beyond the railing to watch the onset of night.

“You know, Harry, I can teach you the finer details of undressing with the eyes.” Draco leaned forward, brushing Harry’s hand with his thumb. “That way you won’t always have to shag me through my expensive trousers.”

“Is that what I’ve been doing?” Harry returned glibly and Draco’s laugh spilled easily into the patio’s chatter.

“Oh, yes. Across the top of the table with all the chefs watching, no less.”

“You like a good show.”

Draco sniffed. “Of course I do. But there is an art to it, Harry.”

“You’ll have to teach me sometime,” he rallied lazily. “And make it _that good_ again.” 

Draco’s lip quirked. He looked down at his curry with a small smile. “No regrets, then?”

It might have been the light that coloured Draco’s cheeks. Harry felt his mouth slide into a faint smile of its own. “None. Just some sore muscles. I’m sure I’ll work them out in Avebury tomorrow.”

Draco frowned. “You’re going to Wiltshire tomorrow?”

“Just for the morning. Then to Yorkshire. Wensleydale.” Harry took a long drink and picked up his fork, wincing as he readjusted his seat. He halted, the first bite halfway to his mouth, and met Draco’s narrowed gaze. “Not overnight.”

Draco sat back, setting his own fork down. _“Well.”_

Harry watched him, then gestured with his fork. “You should eat that, you know. I’m not going out of the country, for Merlin’s sake.”

Draco leaned forward again, a canny gleam in one eye. “Oh, did I mention I’ve got to go for a conference in Aberdeen next month? Four days.”

Harry glared at him, suddenly not as hungry as he had been. “No. You did not.”

Draco’s eyebrow arched infuriatingly. “They’ve a new Ageing Potion they’d like to market throughout Britain. I’ve got to go and suffer their tripe before I sign the papers for ten years more research. Bloody thing has a habit of knocking people into early dementia.”

Harry took a steadying breath. The street outside was darkening, the breeze picking up. Tiny winking lights in the rose trellis to the right flickered on. “Four days?”

Draco nodded serenely, irking Harry with his smile. Then suddenly it slipped into a grin. “I’ve reserved a room for two, if you can get the time. It’s a damned pub. Bed will be very cozy.”

Harry felt himself thawing, and Draco’s thumb brushing over the back of his hand once more finally did him in. He grinned back and flicked Draco’s fingers away fondly. “I should plan overtime all month, just to spite you.”

“Oh, you should. But you won’t.”

“No, I won’t.” Harry leaned back and let the cool evening air wash over his face. “Though I don’t know if four days will work.”

Draco gave a pained sighed and picked up his fork again. “Three, then. Or two, and Apparate. This isn’t a request, Potter.”

Harry smiled as sweetly as he could. “And this isn’t a refusal.”

Draco’s smirk would have dumped sarcasm all over Harry’ plate had he been close enough. Harry chuckled and took a bite. The taste of cardamom and garlic burst against his tongue and he sighed happily. “Here, have a bite. It’s—Draco.”

His lover’s fork was poised over his food, dropping neglected curried chicken onto his mango chutney. Draco was staring over the patio railing with a decidedly sour expression. As Harry watched, the blond closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “Godric’s shriveled balls…”

Harry craned his neck over his shoulder, but there were too many people passing by on the street to see which had caught his lover’s ire… until one young man turned with a slightly furrowed brow and made for the patio. Harry glanced back to find Draco looking even more discontent. “Who is he?”

“A Muggle. Old acquaintance,” Draco muttered. 

Harry appraised him, concentrating on the slight twitch of Draco’s fingers. “Old lover, you mean.”

The blond rolled his eyes, moving restlessly in his chair. “Well, I have had quite a few. They’re bound to pop up out of the ground every so often. Can’t really be helped, but it can be avoided. Let’s get these for take away.”

“Little late for that.” Harry watched the man approach. He was tall, fairly well-muscled, with a deep tan and soft-looking chestnut hair curling around his face. He would have been incredibly attractive, if not for the confused frown marring his forehead. 

Harry fought a smirk. Hell, even with the frown. The man edged his way gracefully past two closely packed tables, laying an appeasing hand on the shoulder of a disturbed patron. “Well, I can see why you liked him. How long ago was this?”

Draco was stretched in his chair, feigning laziness with an expression carved out of solid stone. The faint sneer, the narrowed eyes, the lifted chin. He swirled his water glass in one hand. “Two long years ago, Harry, if you must know. And it ended two long years ago as well. I don’t really see why he’s here.”

Harry smiled at his lover, darting his eyes over the refined, aloof figure the tall blond cut in the grasp of his chair. “I do.”

“Draco,” the newcomer said, coming to a halt at their table. He glanced at Harry for a moment, and then turned a still-amazed look in Draco’s direction. The man’s eyes drank in Draco’s sprawled form. “I didn’t expect to see you here. It’s been… well, it’s been ages.”

But the man’s initial caution couldn’t hold past the careful greeting and he smiled at last, a dazzlingly childlike grin. Harry caught fondness there that he recognized. Draco returned the smile stiffly. 

“Yes, hello.”

The man’s face smoothed into passivity, and he blinked. “I was just going for milk and there you were. I’d no idea you liked this restaurant. I used to come all the time.”

Draco’s eyes dropped slightly, and when they swung up again, they had lost a little of their annoyance. A very little. Harry raised an eyebrow that only his lover would see. Draco’s lips thinned. “We’re just out for dinner,” he volleyed.

The man seemed to remember Harry’s presence. This time, a vague but definite wariness stole over his face. He turned toward Harry uncertainly, and Harry felt himself being sized up. “Hello. And… and you are?”

Draco nudged Harry before he could answer and lifted his drink toward the man. “This is Jonathan Hereford. Jonathan, I’d introduce you, but I’m afraid my friend and I were about to leave, and I’ve got a very important appointment to keep.”

“Draco, stop it.” Harry turned toward the man and held out his hand gamely. “Harry Potter. Nice to meet you.”

The man blanched, and then colored again immediately. His nostrils flared. Harry blinked and dropped his hand. 

“Harry Potter,” Jonathan Hereford stated in a flat voice. “Potter, then. Isn’t that wonderful.” 

He turned an icy glare Draco’s way, and then actually growled at Harry before whipping around and striding away. Harry felt his own jaw drop. 

“Bloody… Well. That’s certainly a new one. Thought you said he was a Muggle.”

“He is,” Draco muttered.

“How’d he know who I was then?”

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “He… happens to know your first name.”

“How would he know that?” Harry said blankly.

“Yes, well. He might know it because... I called it out while he was in the midst of shagging me once.”

The last was spoken so quickly it took Harry nearly a full five seconds to register the reality of the situation. He stared at Draco incredulously. It was the hot flush creeping up Draco’s throat, and the disparaging frown that finally did him in. Harry began to laugh. “Oh, Merlin… oh my _lord_ …”

Draco threw his napkin at Harry with a grimace, then turned his glare on the man’s retreating back. “Don’t know how I ever made the mistake either. He’s an amateur in comparison.”

“Well.” Harry wiped his eyes. “That explains the simmering hatred then, I expect. He must have liked you a lot.”

“He did,” Draco said simply. His eyes caught Harry’s for a moment. “Wanted an emotional commitment. Sadly, I couldn’t return the favor.”

“Why’s that?”

This time, Draco’s flickering gaze held. He reached across the table and took Harry’s hand in a hesitant grip. “My emotions were already committed, Harry.”

 _Two years ago_. Harry looked down at their hands, and then slowly turned his own hand over until it was palm to palm with Draco’s. Pale fingers quivered against his skin and Harry squeezed gently. When he looked up, Draco’s eyes were soft, and wider than usual.

“Let’s go home, shall we?” Harry said. “Stop for ice cream on the way.”

Draco sniffed and drew his hand out of his grasp to signal the waitress. “I don’t indulge in such childish pastimes, Harry.”

“The hell you don’t,” Harry snorted. Draco glowered at him and then turned to the waitress.

“Our bill, please. And the rest of this to take away.”

When she’d come and gone again, Draco grabbed the takeaway bag, and Harry fished out his wallet and counted out the exact amount, then dropped an extra Muggle bill onto the table. Draco’s affectionate grin was visible under the soft lights from the trellis. Harry shrugged and picked up the two boxes, winding around to the back of Draco’s chair. He leaned over and brushed a quick kiss against the other man’s jaw. 

“Come on, then. You’re just dying for mint chip.”

Draco rolled his eyes and shoved his chair back with exaggerated duress. “Fine. We’ll get you your damned ice cream. _This_ time.”

“Of course we will,” Harry said loftily. “Good news is, _this_ time you’re paying for what you’ll end up eating.”

~tbc~


	3. Perfect Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andy likes his life, his job... and his coworker, Harry Potter.

He was a perfect male specimen, Harry Potter was. Andy didn’t have a problem with cataloguing each and every example of that perfection either. Just now, with his shirt sleeves rolled up to bare tanned, mud-streaked forearms, collar folded just haphazardly enough to bring attention to the fact that Harry wore ‘haphazard’ like a second skin, and dark hair ruffling into a continuous flow of obsidian silk, Harry Potter was more than enough reason for Andy to let his mind drift slowly out across the barrow downs and forget the map he held quite completely.

And that was saying nothing for the well-toned shoulders beneath that shirt, and the carelessly bronzed body. Andy knew it was there; he’d seen it, or at least the top half of it, on scorching days when the sun baked the clothing right off of any intelligent person’s frame. Andy dreamed of getting Harry naked three times a week, and shagging… He smirked to himself, finally looking down at the map, smoothing it with his fingers. Shagging or being shagged by Harry would put his dreams to shame, because Harry was the one thing that most other delectable types were not: he was caring.

“Andy, you certain that hole is over here?”

He looked up and found Harry standing, cutting a lean, steady shadow against the rolling hills of green behind. The sunlight dove through the speedily moving clouds, painting light all over his body like water.

“It’s right under your feet, Harry. Should be.” He didn’t need to consult the map.

Harry glanced at the towering blocks and henges of stone to Andy’s left, running a hand through his hair to clear his eyes. Solid pine green, those eyes.

Gods. It was time to stop acting the idiot before his chance ran away from him. Harry liked men, Andy knew that. Had made a point of knowing that. And there was something very blessed in that fact, a miracle that Andy had not failed once to give ritual thanks for.

He could see Harry counting the feet from the edge of the stone circle with his eyes. Ticking them off on slender fingers. Harry’s eyes flickered shut, then opened, and his lips parted, letting the faintest of whispers free. The grass at Andy’s feet pricked upright and then bowed out away from the stones in one muted sweep. Andy’s skin crawled at the touch of Harry’s magic. Something deep within the stone circle shifted, a grinding of the soul, and Harry looked down.

“Bloody hell,” he hissed and jerked his wand free. The curse’s first wave rolled out of the earth directly under Harry’s feet. Andy jumped, muttered counter spells to contain the spread of it, but Harry’s eyes flashed in the rippling sunlight; his wand shot out, and the magic gave a primal groan, the sound of cavernous earth, and unwillingly wisped away.

The hole looked frail and normal amidst the tall grass. Peaceful again.

Harry met Andy’s eyes and grinned, lopsidedly and the cause for Andy’s sudden lightheadedness. “Wasting Hex. Lousy one, too.” Harry raised his arm and beckoned to the small group of Wizard guides waiting on the outskirts of the stone circle. “Give us a few minutes to get out of here and then tell them they can send the Muggles back in,” he called.

Merlin, but Andy wanted that man. Had for ages. And Harry Potter was just the nice enough sort to give him what he wanted, if he didn’t insist on proving himself the complete and utter fool by not requesting it in the first place.

“You want to get a drink, Harry?” Andy said before he could find another reason to stop himself. A boyfriend, perhaps. There was no way someone who looked the way Harry did could be alone.

Harry flashed him that grin again. The wind dropped and his hair slid down rakishly over his forehead, parting just enough to bare the slight, unforgettable scar. “My pub, if you don’t mind.”

* * *

‘Harry’s pub’ was The Dragon’s Scales, a tiny, lopsided hole in the wall in Burford’s equally tiny Wizarding district. ‘Andy’s pub’ was located further afield in Tetbury, and usually was so crowded by this time of night that it was just as well Harry insisted and had his way. 

Harry drank long from his pint of ale, and laughter spilled over from the nearest table, which was crowded with men and women and cloaks and empty mugs. Andy saluted them and Harry let out a pleased chuckle before leaning forward on his elbows. “You know, what I think? That hex was the Jamesons’. The thing had their smell all over it.”

“Maybe the Ministry won’t be such a load of arses this time and let them out for good behavior.” Andy leaned in a little as well, feeling a thorough and pleasant kinship with Harry, if he did say so himself. “Bill’s going to be livid.” _And you’ve no idea how radiant you make me feel._ It didn’t exactly fit in with the current topic, but it might, in a few beers’ time. Andy knew with a strange sense of levity that tonight would be the night he would speak. There was no reason not to. Harry seemed to be the last flawless, unattached man.

Really, it wasn’t as farfetched as one might think. Harry’s choice of employment took him out of his home in London staggeringly often, and though Andy wasn’t fool enough to believe that Harry had been without the occasional lover, a long-term relationship might very well be an impossibility.

Unless one could match such a strange and rigorous schedule. Thus, it was very likely that Andy was the best candidate. His job took him everywhere that Harry went.

Andy’s drinking partner lifted his glass in agreement of his last statement. “But it’ll give him something to do besides pounding the ancient roads of Egypt for the fifty-third time, yeah?”

He ought to speak now. Ought to ask Harry for another drink tomorrow back in London, maybe accompany it with a dinner. A film. A week. A month. Harry Potter had such an easy way about him, as if one could say anything and be certain of complete seriousness in response. He had a feeling that giving voice to his innermost yearnings for Harry’s ears would never result in ridicule.

A laughing, very inebriated couple stumbled their way through the door into the night, letting in a freezing bluster of wind before the heavy oak banged shut once more. When the bell tinkled merrily again almost immediately, Andy thought of missing scarves and misplaced coats left at tables, and looked up to witness the cheerful retrieval of said items. But it wasn’t the couple who walked into the pub.

A man in a thick coat the colour of Cotswolds clouds stepped inside, brushing something invisible from his shoulder with one expensively gloved hand. His blond hair gusted in the wind, so light as to look silver in the firelight. He was tallish, clothed in finer threads than the town of Burford witnessed on a regular basis, and next to the gaily chattering off-work group cluttered into the establishment, it was especially apparent. Andy had a brief moment of realising that he’d seen this man somewhere, and then a moment of deeper, more instinctual recognition from somewhere further back, but the context felt wrong.

The newcomer removed each glove with simple precision, and Andy felt his heart beat quickly against his ribs. Very handsome indeed. “I think that bloke’s eyes match his coat,” he said before thinking, because there was really nothing more arresting than the soft ash of the man’s irises. Andy would get to analyzing the rest in a moment.

Harry swiveled on his stool and took in the new arrival, and if there had been _any doubt_ left about his sexuality, it died a quick, quiet death there in the haze of the crowded pub.

Andy had to physically draw his eyes away from his co-worker. He frowned curiously at the doorway instead. “He’s not a local.”

“No, he certainly isn’t.” Harry’s voice was quiet, and then it filled with a warmth Andy had been dreading since the moment he’d met the man: “Brightens a whole bloody room, doesn’t he?”

The way Harry’s eyes glowed… Andy sighed and looked down at his pint. Wasn’t possible. The blond man moved with the grace of a cat, cinder-grey coat pristinely sweeping against long legs in tailored black trousers as he sorted his way past the tables and drinking patrons toward the bar. His face was sharp and lithe, in that aching, ruthless way that hurt the most because things that were that ethereal weren’t meant to be grasped by mortal men. Couldn’t be more different from Harry’s earthy lines and comfortable charm. There was disdain in the way the man moved, but it was faint, as if it were always ready to swing to the surface, but not quite allowed its full freedom.

Halfway through the room, the blond man caught sight of them, and his step slowed, then quickened again. 

“Just get in?” Harry asked once he was close enough, and there was a certain quality to his voice, as if it were meant only for the man he was currently addressing. As if it should have gone unnoticed by everyone else in the room. 

The man gave a single nod, and Andy was struck again by that sense of familiarity. “Cheeks are red,” the newcomer said in reply. His voice was as calm as his gait. He lifted a hand and touched one finger to Harry’s flushed cheek. 

“It’s windburn.” Harry turned on the stool again and graced Andy with one of those grins. “Andy—Andrew, rather. Andrew Somerset, Draco Malfoy.”

Oh yes, well, that explained it fairly succinctly. There wasn’t a wizard alive who didn’t know about Harry Potter, of course, but it felt much more elitist to know of the infamous surviving Malfoy. Andy surveyed his counterpart, and thought about extending a hand.

Draco Malfoy’s eyes slid over him, and Andy could see the sharp awareness in them. This one knew what he was thinking, or could guess very accurately. The tiniest of flashes quickened those mercurial irises. Malfoy nodded, letting his lips fall into a half-smirk. 

“Pleasure,” the man said in a perfectly poised voice.

Andy nodded and smiled back as well as he could.

Harry’s delectable voice sounded again. “Have any trouble finding the place?”

Draco Malfoy sniffed dismissively. “Trust you to locate the most cramped, Muggle-like pub in all of Wizardom. Do you know, I think I actually missed this one back when I was in my formative, impressionable years.”

Harry snickered, and Andy looked at him, blinking. He’d never heard that particular laugh from his coworker before. It gave him a slightly lewd edge; if Andy had known it existed before tonight, he might not have waited so long. “And exactly which years were your impressionable ones anyway?”

Malfoy’s only answer was a secretive smirk. Secretive to Andy, anyway; he doubted Harry was excluded from the back-story. Indignation fluttered weakly inside him, and he just… had to know.

“Visiting him at work? That’s rather nice. You know, I think I’ve seen you before.”

Malfoy’s gaze settled briefly on him again. A nod.

“Didn’t know you were with Harry, though. How long have you two been…” Andy gestured, maintaining what he assumed was a pleasant smile. “Together?”

Harry’s eyes lifted to Malfoy’s face. His hand reached. Fingers closed around their slender, paler counterparts and squeezed. “Going on four months, now.”

Malfoy’s lips curved upward, and one brow lifted. “Potter can be a real romantic sot about it,” he countered easily. But Andy did not miss the brief grip of his hand around Harry’s.

So Harry was managing a steady relationship. Four months was a long time. And if he truly thought back, the timeline coincided particularly with a general brightening of Harry’s mood. Not that Harry Potter hadn’t always been genial. Andy figured there were two ways a man could go, having been through what Harry had, and Harry’d chosen the less stressful of them, definitely. His sense of humour and restful demeanor had always been a major selling point. It was just that he’d been… more at ease in the past four months than Andy could remember in years.

“Well, it took us a while,” Harry said, and there was a deep, painful fondness around his eyes. “There’s history here you wouldn’t believe.”

Andy had a feeling it wasn’t _that_ sort of ‘on-and-off,’ the sort where one such as Andy Somerset might manage a year of glorious heaven in between the ‘on.’ 

He caught Malfoy’s extraordinary eyes again, fixed on him. There was no real malice there. Just an awareness, plain and open. If Malfoy couldn’t read his emotions, Andy was no curse-breaker. Malfoy certainly knew who he had here in Harry. He knew exactly who he had. All the trappings included. 

Andy watched Harry’s fingers play with the hem of Malfoy’s sleeve, and drift over the back of his hand. Lingering at his thumb, pressing the knuckle with a fleeting stroke. Harry couldn’t seem to keep from touching the other man. It was a bitter, bitter draught to swallow, somehow. Andy felt the blush creeping over his face and focused on his pint, suddenly very aware of the blond’s shrewd gaze. He’d no idea if it was truly turned on him. But he didn’t feel candid enough to risk it at the moment.

The comforting lilt of Harry’s voice went on, shaping sounds that should have been words in Andy’s ears. He simply liked to listen to Harry speak, and wondered rather unexpectedly whether Malfoy fed the same addiction. 

Maybe he was just slow, but his mind was still back in the reality where Harry Potter was single. Andy shook his head unobtrusively as Harry finished up a carefree relation of the hex they’d pulled out of the ground earlier that day.

“…long day. Amateur curse, but we were up too bloody early. Andy had to pry me with coffee.”

“You don’t drink coffee,” Malfoy said blandly. Harry’s face twisted, and it hit Andy that he was fighting a smile with every ounce of his being.

“All the more reason it worked. For a while, anyway.”

Andy did have to smile at that. It was true; Harry’s buzz had been short-lived at best. But the tremour in the blond’s eyes as he gazed at Andy’s coworker was more than enough to sober Andy up. A pale hand lifted, as if it would settle on Harry’s back. But Malfoy merely leaned forward and turned Harry’s empty pint glass, as if perusing it. Harry stretched one arm over his head, cocking his elbow lazily.

“What time is it, anyway? Half nine?”

Andy glanced over the bar. “Earlier.”

“Feels later,” Harry muttered, hiding a yawn.

“You’ll forgive me,” Malfoy said suddenly with a composed smile, “if I drag Harry away. Our schedules haven’t been so cooperative lately.”

“Touring tomorrow.” Harry stood with that same loopy grace. “Would you believe he’s never been to Stonehenge?”

Andy thought about it for all of two seconds. “No.”

Malfoy’s long eyelashes dipped and rose, and when they did, his irises were clear slate again, though Andy couldn’t pinpoint what had departed. Harry gathered his coat in the sure grip of one hand and clapped Andy on the shoulder. Not too hard, and just firmly enough to broadcast Harry’s sense of self-worth. It was hard work for a moment not to grasp after that hand.

“Pleasure meeting you. Have fun,” Andy said at last. Malfoy nodded to him, a knowing smirk touching his mouth. Harry wished him a good night, and they wove between the tables to the pub’s door and the chilly winter night beyond. Andy had the sense he was watching a departure that was much bigger than it seemed to be on the surface. He couldn’t have taken his eyes from them if he wanted to, and he didn’t want to stop looking at Harry Potter.

Harry said something that was covered over by the pub’s general merriment, a scant few words meant for his partner alone. A question, perhaps. Andy watched as Draco Malfoy’s head dipped, tilting toward Harry’s. The hardened smirk slipped loose, and grey eyes closed. Draco’s hand came up, and Andy saw pale fingers squeeze Harry’s shoulder. A lock of blond hair stirred under Harry’s exhalation.

As smoothly as breathing, Harry’s hand found Draco’s and grasped, held, let go.

Oh, Andy hadn’t a chance in all nine circles of hell. He could see that now. There was simply a shiver in the air between the two of them, a single tether suspended, pulling them together. One look at Draco Malfoy and his brain had known it was over.

It had just taken his heart a few minutes to catch up.

The door opened, letting both of them out into the blackness beyond, and then shut. There was a finality to it; Andy wouldn’t see Harry tomorrow, they were set to return home until the next trip into the field, and there would be no dinner or film or drink in between.

Four months.

He could guess where they were going. What they were retiring to do. He couldn’t blame either of them. Draco Malfoy was no one to turn down. Andy wouldn’t have, given half the chance. He could well imagine the perks of shagging that man, and they included bliss and breathlessness and an indefinable hard edge. Desperation in darkness. And Harry… well, _Harry_. Obviously.

He hadn’t really considered it until then, but… he wondered what they talked about afterward. How they talked. And which happened first, the talking or the… shagging?

There’d been talking in his fantasies of Harry. The expected utterances, of course. But not _talking_. For some reason, he was absolutely sure that Draco Malfoy spoke to Harry, in a soft voice that fit in the dark room amongst slowing breaths and twisted sheets and tangled limbs.

Alas. Andy gave himself the luxury of one final sigh. There were other men here tonight after all, weren’t there? He raised his glass, and his voice. “Oy. Drinks on me tonight, lads.”

* * *

The room was cosy. Draco cracked an eyelid without meaning to and sighed luxuriantly, stretching both arms up over his head. His hands bumped the wall; he bent his elbows and arched, feeling the serene strain in his ribs. He’d forgone even the sheets, but the air in the room settled over him like a soft blanket.

The scratching sound of the quill stopped. Harry’s head rose slightly, an amused smile hovering around his mouth. “Good morning, Beauty.”

“Wasn’t sleeping,” Draco muttered. Stretched again. Harry’s bare upper half glowed golden and fuzzy to his drowsy eyes, and his loose black pyjama pants accentuated his lean feet, cocked up on the stool in front of the chair. The window was dark behind him, pricked with stars. “And it’s not morning.”

“Hm,” Harry murmured. His quill feather dropped and rose as he resumed writing. Draco craned his neck a little and saw untidy stacks of parchment on the floor by Harry’s chair. Green eyes flicked up and fixed on him, and the glow in them was simply unmistakable. 

“Well. Go ahead and look, then,” Draco said. Harry smirked.

“Oh, I have been.”

“Think I’ll sleep in a shirt from now on,” Draco groused, reaching up and pummeling his pillow with one lazy fist.

Harry chuckled at that. “You couldn’t sleep that way even if you wanted to. Boxers for you, and nothing else.” His quill scritch-scratched over the parchment.

Draco strained his arms and legs once more, but that marvelous, orgasmic stretch had already passed. He felt deliciously unhinged. “Still reporting, I see.”

“Nearly finished.” Harry raised a hand, brushing hair from eyes still trained on his notes. “Missed dinnertime.”

“Floo for room service.” Draco yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll be wanting chicken kiev. And salad with coriander.”

“Should be up in a few moments,” Harry said offhandedly. Draco caught his eye and didn’t feel inclined to keep the smile from his face.

“Sleep well?” Harry asked. His toes flexed, showing off the arch of his foot in the firelight. Draco gazed at it for a moment.

“Missed my bloody Apparition appointment,” he said at last, ignoring the question. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have been so late to the pub. That stupid fool from Glastonbury didn’t even show up in my office until an hour before, and then he just kept pushing his ‘miracle elixir’ on me. As if the Potions merchants in Istanbul hadn’t already developed the very same croup cure centuries ago.”

“Hob-knobbing with Abbey Potions-makers, were you?” Harry inquired amusedly.

Draco shrugged. “Well, it’s either that or tell you about the gorgeous, bronzed tat from Islington who I’ve secreted away for the days you’re out.” 

Harry’s smile couldn’t be contained; it was the barely checked laughter that Draco was interested in, however. He folded his arms under his head and gazed at the ceiling.

“He’s a… polite man,” he said finally and Harry’s quill paused. Draco swung his head to look at the other man. “The one in the pub.”

Quill-tip returned to parchment again. “Andy, then. You know, I think you surprised him.”

“Stands to reason.”

Harry’s face was warmly lit by the fire, his hair black as ebony. Draco stared, drank his fill. Thought. “Still, he was friendly enough, I suppose.”

“Andy can’t not be friendly. He hasn’t got it in him.”

“Useful with a counter-curse?”

Harry’s eyes flicked over the page of parchment once before he set it aside and shook out another. The muscles in his arms flexed and stilled again, a mesmerising ripple. “One of the best. Though he doesn’t believe that.” Harry’s lips curved into a fond smile. “He’s been in the business for as long as I have.”

Draco considered long days spent outside of London, longer nights in unfamiliar inn beds. The same days and nights that had drawn the two of them taut until they snapped apart and floated off, Draco to his potions, Harry to his curses.

It had seemed so simple then. And now, the obviousness of it was still clear, in Draco’s sight at least.

 _It would be easier on you, Harry._ But he didn’t say it.

The lock of hair fell down, obscuring Harry’s eyes again. Draco watched him, the way the moonlight from outside slipped over his bare shoulders. “He works with you, you know.”

Harry laughed, shaking the hair from his eyes with a single toss of his head. His grin was wide. “Does he, now? I hadn’t noticed.”

Draco heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes ceiling-ward. His fingers located one of his socks atop the rumpled duvet and he threw it at the other man’s head. “You really don’t have to be such an arse all the time, you know. Occasional bouts of it work well enough.”

The sound of the chair shifting, and then the pad of feet, came to Draco’s ears. The bed dipped and Harry’s voice sounded just near his left ear. “It worries you. Hence the attraction.”

“Just stating a fact.”

Harry inhaled. Exhaled. Fingers touched the line of Draco’s jaw fleetingly. “Tiring day?”

Draco shrugged. Opted for that smile. “Traveling takes it out of me.”

Harry smirked. “And I’m starting to think it’s not the traveling part that does it.”

“Ah, except I haven’t done anything yet today but travel, Potter.” Draco wiggled his eyebrows. “And who’s fault is that?”

“Don’t even start. You know I make it worth your while.”

Draco simply smiled at Harry. Couldn’t think of a thing to say, and knew, oddly, that it was a time for silence. Harry’s returned the smile, and there was an affection in it that pricked something deep in Draco’s heart and held there, stinging faintly. The fire popped, hissing suddenly, and in the ensuing quiet, he reached up and touched the dangling strands of Harry’s hair with fingers that felt loose and stretched, like the rest of his body. As if he couldn’t move.

“I love you.”

Harry’s eyes opened just a bit wider. Maybe the green deepened; Draco couldn’t be sure. He could smell the soft scent of fresh earth that lingered about the other man; no hint of Harry’s cologne. Harry did not wear it in the field, and the earthiness of his work pooled into him like some sort of waterfall. Draco licked his lips and shrugged. “If we have a reason for splitting up later, I don’t want it to be because I never told you how I felt.”

Harry’s nostrils flared slightly. Draco felt him shift his feet on the bed. “That was hard for you, wasn’t it?” Harry said thoughtfully.

Draco blinked. Blinked again and slumped back onto the bed. He ran both hands through his hair, shaking his head. “Damned right, Potter, now shag me already before I lose all sense of self-respect and start blubbering like a bloody Huffle—”

Harry’s lips claimed the words and Draco gave over far too readily. He could feel the tense and release of the muscles in Harry’s arms as he shifted on the rickety bed. Harry’s shoulders were half gold, half pearlescent, and his chest was nothing but a series of gentle curves and beautiful expanses of skin. Draco’s hand climbed up and pressed against Harry’s chest, fingers splaying, reaching further than any corporeal body could.

“Mm, better,” Harry murmured, finally pulling back. His dark hair dropped richly over his forehead. Draco fingered the prickly-soft place where that hair met Harry’s nape.

“So. Shagging me now?”

His lover’s head tilted and a small smile drifted there in his eyes. “No, I don’t think I will.”

Draco lifted an eyebrow slowly and glorified in the resultant warmth that suffused Harry’s irises. As if he couldn’t control it. “Going to make me do the hard work then.”

“No,” Harry said simply.

“Well, bloody hell.” Draco sighed and made to roll, to move. “And I came all this way.”

Harry followed him with a sinuous, whole-body ripple and caught his mouth again. Draco’s restlessness drained away. He kissed Harry back, and it was a sensuous, heartfelt plundering of his mouth. Harry’s tongue teased – a horrid and dastardly trick, that one – and Draco let it play along his, circling, stroking, just touching.

“You know how magnificent your mouth is?” Harry’s murmur was clear, and right against his lips. “It opens just enough at first, and then there’s just no way to resist. It’s the best mouth I’ve ever kissed.”

“That right?” Draco said smugly, and Harry nodded upward, more of a nudge with his nose, and their lips met again and fell back.

“Slick. Sounds dirty, but there you have it. And your tongue is simply heinous, I’d like you to know. Never met…” Harry kissed him, languishing around the tongue in question with thoroughly aching strokes. “…a more gifted tongue.”

“I see. You want to make out, do you?” Draco pulled one leg up, fitting it snugly against Harry’s waist, and relaxed his body down into the sheets.

Harry’s hands caught his wrists, a soft grip which Draco resisted until the inexorable push of Harry’s touch guided his hands up over his head. Harry lowered his whole body then, hands, arms, chest and legs and hips, in one somehow-perfect movement, pressing Draco’s wrists to the bed. Draco curled his fingers over Harry’s hands and tilted his head, and the next kiss was deeper and harsher than the others, but no less for wanting. And no less for patience. Harry plied his mouth until Draco was ready to give him his entire body in one single ephemeral thrust upward, and the man hadn’t even actually _touched_ his body yet.

“I’d really like you to fuck me,” Draco said reasonably, and Harry raised himself up with a short laugh.

“We’ll get to that, you know. This is a little something I like to call foreplay.”

“Oh, do shut the fuck up, Harry.”

Harry did. He kissed Draco instead, and it was… nice. Exquisite and strenuous, and an agonizing turn-on. Harry’s forearms glistened with sweat before too long, and Draco felt so very tired from it all, bone-tired, but most unwilling to stop. Each slow kiss took strength, and he could feel Harry’s body shudder from time to time, muscles threatening to give out. What they might have been doing that was so taxing was impossible to define. Draco hadn’t had much experience with snogging as physically difficult, but with Harry it was the strain of perfection. Of _trying_ to make it perfect. Of succeeding.

They hadn’t moved from that spot an hour later, not enough to count. The duvet was still a piled mass beside them, the pillow a satisfying presence beneath Draco’s head. But Draco was worn through and panting for air he didn’t have, arms locked around Harry’s body to hold him close, hands tangled hopelessly in his hair, legs twisted around their darker, steadier counterparts. His boxers were soaked with sweat between them, and his hair felt damp and tousled when Harry finally lifted away just enough to reach down and tuck his hands beneath Draco's thighs. Ease gently upward until his legs bent at the knee.

Draco had never been so ready in his life. His entire body felt utterly opened, nerves tingling all down his limbs. He touched Harry’s face, fingers desperate and quivering against his cheek. Harry gave him a weary smile, but the light in his eyes flared briefly.

It was barely movement, what they did. Eventually, his boxers went the way of his sock. Draco’s feet curled into the sheets and Harry’s body was a tight, hot press into his, tiny thrusts that were more felt than noticed visually. Harry buried his face in Draco’s throat and breathed harsh gasps into his shoulder, speeding suddenly into helpless panting, hips shuddering. Draco flailed with one hand until he could grip the edge of the mattress, and it was then that Harry’s voice came to him, hushed and ragged in such a way that he knew Harry had just come, but Draco had been unable to feel it through his own flawless, building euphoria.

“I love you, you know that,” Harry whispered.

Draco took his face in his hands and nodded, his vision prickling around the edges in infinite black specks that rode the coming tide. Leaned his head back as his body started to shake. Harry kissed his chin and Draco tightened his thighs around Harry’s hips, losing control over himself in steady increments that spiraled down and up and out.

“I know,” he gasped. “I know it.”

~tbc~


	4. In Comparison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco can appreciate what is right in front of him.

Draco passed a tall, dark-skinned man just beyond the overworked sliding doors of Boots, and turned fully around, walking backwards down the crowded sidewalk a mite carelessly. The man wore a grey duster, and the sharp turn to his jaw cut pristinely against his high collar. 

Lean. Solid shoulders. Draco chewed the inside of his lip, tasting his own smile.

Turned back around and continued on his way. Groceries, bloody hell, he certainly went through them nowadays, didn’t he? As if he had a parasite. One with dark, mussy hair and gorgeous green eyes, and a fixation on ginger digestives.

Draco adjusted his coat collar against the wind and pushed open the door to Budgens. 

There had been a day not long ago when he would have walked right into the Thames before setting foot in a cluttered, crowded Muggle grocery. Dust, the places always had dust on their damned boxes of rice, or grime in their cold goods freezers. But Diagon was the nearest thing to a magical tourist trap these days, and at least Muggles never felt the need to gape at him like recently deceased fish.

This time the man at the cash register ran his goods through the scanner and his eyes over his body. Draco smirked at him. 

“Have something to say, do you?”

To his credit, the man did not blush, but cocked his head, flicking his eyes toward the other employee stocking shelves near the produce, and then deliberately back to Draco’s waist. Or thereabouts. “Just that my evening shift is looking pretty damned distasteful right about now.”

“Hm,” Draco murmured, taking several notes from his coat pocket. He set them down on the counter. “My condolences. I’ve already got someone to go home to, my friend.”

The man sighed wistfully. “Bully for her. Him?”

Draco lifted an eyebrow, lips quirking. Picked up his change. “You have an enjoyable shift.”

The man’s tongue was against his front teeth when Draco nodded to him and left the store. Stepped into the twilight and caught a glimpse of another grey coat sweeping over a woman’s calves as she walked briskly toward the bus stop. Draco frowned vaguely and tugged his collar higher again.

Handsome, that cashier, in a boyish way. Draco knew the type. He’d sought that type before. But it wasn’t really _his_ type; it was Harry’s. 

Draco saw men every day, men with hair his fingers itched to curl through, and bodies that made his breath catch for more than an instant, made him want. It was a concession his more lax state of mind allowed him during the first few seconds, before his rational, mature sensibilities caught up and reminded him that such thoughts were inappropriate.

Inappropriate, perhaps. But they were reality.

Sitting on the wretched bus whenever Harry managed to gum up his values inexplicably enough to get him onto it— disgustingly two-faced ploy, it was, but Harry could be awfully persuasive— Draco had watched his lover’s eyes slide sideways in the trail of a tall brunet, a well-muscled honey-blond perhaps. 

A critical study was, of course, the only logical response. Draco did his staring, enjoyed it, and smirked at Harry’s expectantly raised eyebrows. 

“He’s a seven. Barring those trousers.”

Harry snorted. “Nothing wrong with _those_ trousers.”

“You know, Potter, there’s more to life than a taut arse.” Draco leaned casually forward, startling a middle-aged woman who was clutching her purse across her lap in the seat beside him. “He should show what he has to offer to the rest of us slavering souls, not hide it behind some tacky pinstripe facsimile.”

The woman’s eyes widened, darted to Harry and back to him. Harry nodded thoughtfully. “Good thing you own real pinstripes.”

“Salazar, Harry, stop going on about my skivvies in public.”

He had a feeling that the woman chose an earlier stop to disembark than was her usual wont.

Yes, that cashier had certainly been fuckable. And damned forward about it, all things considered. A few months ago, the offer would have been just as promising, if a little more feasible than it was now.

Draco crossed the street at a jog he was not happy about, swept the hair out of his face with a flick of his head, and got inordinately annoyed all at once. “Oh, fuck it all.” He raised his hand, leaning out into the street. A bus honked, and the black cab just behind it rumbled to a stop two feet from him.

“Gloucestor and Cornwall Gardens,” he said. “Do not take Cromwell, for the love of all saints. And I have a headache, so please refrain from speaking.”

He shut his eyes and let the drive occur without him. Pressed his fingers to his forehead. For fuck’s sake. He’d already taken a potion for this, after lunch. “Bloody incompetent apothecaries.”

* * *

“Here, eat your damned minnows. Godric knows they cost a fortune.”

Harry plucked the container out of his hand. “Sardines, Draco. And I hardly think they’ll put your account out of commission.”

Draco lazed back against the park bench, slinging one arm over the backrest and deliberately settling his fingers against Harry’s neck. “My account, he says. Well. Good to know he’s aware of who paid. Who had to go through the hassle of exchanging perfectly acceptable Galleons for absurd Muggle pounds. Who spent hard earned licensing funds on smelly little ocean dwellers.”

“Why, thank you, darling.” Harry grinned at him cheekily from beneath his conjured sunglasses. Draco eyed them frankly.

“Why haven’t I seen those on you before?”

“Just made them today.”

Draco sighed, shaking his head. “To think of all the sex the great Harry Potter has been passing up.” He flicked a finger up at the glasses. “Should have whipped those into shape weeks ago. I would have shagged you into the shag.”

Harry laughed. “You would cut your own eyes out before you allowed shag carpeting into your flat.”

Draco shrugged. Popped a sliver of Clementine into his mouth. “Then we’d shag on your shag. What do you think of him, then?”

Harry followed Draco’s extended orange, craning his neck. A moment’s thought, and then— “Scrawny. Though I like his shoulders.”

Draco sat up, flinging a loose peel at the rubbish bin across the path and falling short. “Oh, come off it. His stomach alone is worth a look.”

Harry nodded. His eyes narrowed into a very familiar expression, and Draco sat back, waiting for it.

“He’s a Wizarding stockbroker, you know.”

“Is he, now?”

Harry tilted his head. “Accidentally bought shares in a defunct wand manufacturing company, and now he’s contemplating whether to throw himself into the river, or really splurge and tumble off a Swiss Alp. Except he has to go take his Skrewt for a walk first.”

“You’re insane, you know that?”

Harry nodded again. “There. There’s your type, right there with the ducks.”

Tall; Draco liked height, certainly. Olive-bronzed throat, hair unnaturally black, judging by the roots. A girl just at the water fountain, but clearly with him. Harry made an approving sound, sitting back on the bench. “Definitely your type, even if he is straight. I dated someone like him last year. It was in… May, I think. So?”

Draco sat back, tapping his fingers on the bench’s armrest. “Hippogriff trainer with an obsessive addiction to blindfolded sex. He’d be at the stables, except his narcolepsy traumatized the Hippogrifflings and he was sacked.”

“ _Very_ creative. Here, you haven’t drunk your water.”

“Not thirsty just yet, thank you.”

Harry passed him the transfigured glass. Let the rest of the park’s patrons figure out why they had dinner tumblers out on a bloody park bench. “Drink it. Can’t have you shriveling up. You haven’t drunk anything all day.”

“Been watching my food intake again?” The man with the ducks was stretching, shirt riding up. Draco grinned at the sight and moved on reluctantly. “Alright, that one then. What’s he?”

Harry repositioned his sunglasses and gave the man in question a smooth, uninhibited stare. A delectable little leer crossed his face. “Gay.”

Draco cocked one arm over his head, settling the glass on his thigh and bracing it with two fingers. “Perhaps.”

“And a bottom.”

Draco snorted. “Oh yes? What’s your reasoning?”

Harry leaned toward him, reaching for the glass and ghosting his fingers over Draco’s leg. “Reminds me of you,” he volleyed, smirking.

Draco glared at his lover. “Says the man who asks increasingly often to take it up the arse— from yours truly, I oh so humbly add.”

“Only on special occasions.” Harry’s smirk was going straight to Draco’s groin and twisting around quite happily there. He inched a hand a tiny bit closer to his belt and watched Harry’s eyes follow it down.

“And what constitutes a special occasion?” Draco murmured.

Harry’s teeth sparkled as he grinned. “Today should do nicely.”

* * *

There were many men who would be good for Harry. 

Draco found one that fit the physical requirements every time he stepped out his or Harry’s front door. The mental status was a bit harder to come by, and even more difficult to prove, and Draco suspected he had higher standards than Harry anyway. His lover liked a sharp wit, of that Draco was certain.

He knew Harry preferred blonds and brunets. Lopsided smiles, and tanned skin. Draco agreed with him on several counts. Muscles without the fuss, or the narcissism; gods knew Draco himself held the monopoly over all the narcissism he ever wanted Harry experiencing from another person. 

He liked to watch Harry watching others. There was a fervent gleam in those green eyes that Draco only saw otherwise in the throes of physical intimacy, on his back across the couch or sprawled atop Harry’s kitchen counter, watching the gleam flare and burn there between the whispers and the sounds, the broken groans and breathless laughter just afterward, when he was sliding back down onto sweat-damp cushions or newly-heated marble, Harry’s body a heavy, helpless weight on top of his. The gleam was an addiction, flooding Draco’s veins with adrenaline, sharpening his tongue— which he fancied only made that gleam deeper and brighter. 

He loved seeing it. Pure, unadulterated lust that inevitably turned his way.

Lust was rather potent in his life. Draco was young, and not one to ignore a natural state of mind, and body. There was so much beauty in the world, half of it packaged neatly into very male forms, most of the rest succinctly reserved for _Harry’s_ very male form. Draco saw on a daily basis. Stared on a daily basis. Appreciated on a daily basis. Remembered what following through had been like, and wondering exactly how long ago that had been.

It was one thing to lust. Quite another to wish to stray.

Harry’s leg rising up along his hip and waist at night was more than enough for Draco Malfoy. His lover’s long, solid body draped openly across mussed sheets, at the perfect ease to allow Draco to enter it, was so much more than enough.

There might be men Draco wanted to fuck. But there were none he wanted _knowing_ him the way Harry did. Hells. He’d proven that already, hadn’t he, with his inability to have any sort of stable relationship after Harry Potter.

Harry was his hang-up. The thought had made him bitter once. Now it couldn’t.

* * *

Draco slammed the cab door and made for his apartment building, racing the thick splats of rain that were beginning to rush down from the sky. He fumbled for his keys for a total of two seconds before swearing and magicking the outer door open with a discreet wave of his palm, and taking the tiny open-air courtyard beyond in a cloud blacker than the ones building overhead. The stairwell was slick already with the rain; Draco gripped the handrail and made his way to the first floor, and finally, his hallway.

He’d have a nice, silent flat to come home to; Harry was working all night on some convoluted mapping system. This time he didn’t bother with his key. Muggle locking mechanisms were not even worth the time it took to jiggle them open. He locked his door up behind himself and set the wards almost as an afterthought, then went in search of a bottle of firewhisky for his headache. 

“Need a damn holiday,” he muttered, flinging the cork into the sink and pouring himself a few fingers of the ruby liquid. Wondered mid-sip if Harry even had a real office to slave over his official duties in.

Draco paced the dark living room twice, glass in hand, before pointing his wand at the hearth and igniting a fire in it. The flames licked merrily up the inside of the chimney. Draco grabbed a handful of Floo Powder and nearly tossed it in.

Ended up putting it back into the bowl and collapsing onto the couch with his drink.

Thank the Founders for distilled liquor of the magical persuasion. It had been some hours since imbibing the potion; no complications to be had. And he’d nowhere to go tonight—again, thank the Founders— so there was nothing in the way of his enjoying himself.

Except that his flat, while quiet, was too… _quiet_. 

“Oh, bloody hell, Potter,” he gritted out loud into the empty room. “You’re not even _here_ and you’re bothering me. Prick.”

Well. He was heading to bed. Who knew that licensing potions all day could be so tiring? Draco rolled his eyes, kicked off his shoes, and got to his feet once more. Downed the rest of his glass and headed off for the enticingly fluffy duvet on his bed.

* * *

He was woken by the slam of his front door, and a much-too-cheerful calling of his name. 

Draco turned over and tucked his pillow in around his ears. His eyelids felt like lead weights, the comforting kind, the kind that promised rather interesting and satisfying dreams if he just let them succeed in closing again. Saturdays were not meant for mornings and anyone who thought otherwise was a few bicorn bits short of a potion. 

The door to his room swung open. “Morning. Sleep well?”

Draco groaned and lifted his head just enough to free his mouth of his top quilt. “Don’t you _dare_ open those curtains.”

“You’ve left your groceries out, you know.” Harry’s footsteps sounded briskly as he made his way around the room, doing things Draco suspected he’d have to smack him for eventually. “All night. Had to spell your eggs fresh again.”

“Bollocks to the eggs,” Draco mumbled into his pillow. He reached threateningly for his wand on the nightstand. “If you’re not planning on getting into bed, then I suggest you leave the room within the next three seconds.”

A hand came down and mussed his hair tenderly. “Need the eggs, you git. Can’t make pancakes without them.”

“For breakfast,” Draco stated flatly.

“What, is this lunch for you?”

If his eyes had been open, Draco would have rolled them. “Yes, go occupy yourself in the kitchen with your eccentric meal choices. I’ll be just fine here.”

A weight settled on the bed behind him, and Harry’s hand slid over the back of his neck, caressing. “You know, some of us just got in from the office.”

“Don’t have a bloody office.”

“I do so have an office. And I’m going to make you pancakes while I’m still wound up from all the fantastic _work_ I’ve been doing all night while you’ve been lazing away, and then I’m going to use your bed to sleep in. With or without you in it.”

“With,” Draco said, burrowing deeper into his quilts. “Bring the pancakes in here and cut out the middle man.”

Harry kissed his neck, a long, sloppy press of lips, and pushed off the bed once more. “Where’s your flour?” he called as he left the room.

Draco turned over and stretched, arching off the bed, loving the feel of it. “Fuck if I know.”

Harry began to clatter around with cooking implements Draco was absolutely certain he’d never possessed. He sighed and floundered deeper into the blankets. Wondered if Harry knew he’d be hand-feeding him those pancakes.

Ah, well. Harry was an intelligent man. He’d figure it out.

~tbc~


	5. Hypocritical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes waking up is worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Rimming. Yeah, you read that right.

“Wake up.”

Harry groaned and turned his head into the pillow. Still dark, his body just knew it. He’d have to work on that whole predicting-the-actual-hour skill, but in general, dark meant sleep. Not waking up.

“Harry.”

He moved his fingers restlessly, half-wondering if it even looked remotely like the insulting gesture he’d been trying for. Hands slid up his calves, hiking one leg up and giving a firm squeeze just under his knee. “Wake _up,_ Potter, for Salazar’s sake.”

“Why th’ fuck should I?” Harry growled out. He tossed one arm over his eyes. “S’either fucking early or fucking late and I don’t like those choices.”

Draco’s snort was audible. His hands tightened, and the fingers of one slipped over Harry’s bare hip, rubbing in a manner much too reminiscent of tickling. “Because I’m going to rim you, that’s why.”

Harry cracked an eye and found that, yes, the room was indeed dark, except there was a lamp on in the corner closest to the door, and his boyfriend was kneeling on the end of the bed over his legs looking very much like a feral cat. His blond hair had obviously been forgotten about, and hung mussily around his slightly flushed face. “You’re still in your work clothes, you know that?”

Draco shrugged one rain-coated shoulder. “Don’t really feel like taking them off. Long day. I am so fucking horny, Harry.”

“Mmm.” Harry bent his other leg and Draco let out a grateful sound and grasped his hips through the sheet, pulling him further down on the bed. Harry slid, letting his arms trail behind. “Good evening, how was work, oh, my day was fine, thanks for asking. Don’t I even warrant a kiss?”

“Oh, for fuck’s—” Draco lunged up quickly, fisting a hand on the mattress beside Harry’s head and covering his mouth in a messy, breathy kiss that ended much too soon. Water droplets from his coat fell onto Harry’s bare skin and he shivered. Grinned. Draco curled his lip sarcastically. “Alright, now will you turn over? I’m jumping out of my skin here.”

“I might just do that.” Harry fingered Draco’s scraggly bangs. “After another kiss. Considering where your mouth is going next—”

“Gods, you are so needy. Alright, here, look at me.” Draco took his chin in one hand and planted a deep, intoxicating kiss on his mouth, urging his lips apart with his tongue. Harry hummed into it and wriggled bodily against Draco’s hips, feeling the blood rush downward, feeling that Draco was already very hard. Draco moaned, and his hands were abruptly pushing Harry back. “Harry, come _on_ —”

He rolled over dutifully, yawning and resting his head on his arms. Draco skated down his body, flinging sheets and quilts aside. The bed shifted and creaked. More water dripped over Harry’s skin, sliding in whisper-rivulets to soak into the under-sheet. “Right then,” he managed through another yawn. “Full speed ahead.”

He could practically feel the drip of Draco’s smirk against his flesh as well. “Oh, well, thank you so _very_ much.”

“Just so you don’t expect me to reciprocate once you’re done.” Harry licked his lips, skin rippling into goosebumps at the determined touch of Draco’s fingers. 

“What? Can’t you take a little lavishing without putting price tags on it?”

Harry grinned and bent his right knee until it was up against his side. “I am not sucking on your bunghole, you prat.”

Draco swatted his thigh. “I do not suck; I’m upper-class. And you don’t even know what you’re missing, Harry. Learn to embrace the eclectic.”

“So embrace away,” Harry returned. “I’ll think of something else to do.”

Draco breathed sweetly over the concave hollow of his lower back. “Believe it or not, Potter, this turns me on and gets me off like nothing else on this earth.”

“Oh, I’ve learned never to underestimate you,” Harry said glibly, and then gasped and clenched his pillow with all ten fingers as Draco’s mouth found what it was aiming for. He let out a low, helpless groan that grated right through him, head to toe, and fought the urge to push back with his hips. Draco’s hands were a sure clasp there, holding him down against the bed. Harry panted into the sheet, mouth a gaping ‘oh’ he suspected would have embarrassed him at any other point, but fuck it all, he couldn’t care less, not when he felt the distinct flicker of Draco’s tongue with nerves much too sensitive for that sort of thing. Harry clenched. _“Gods—”_

“Mm-hmm,” Draco murmured low in his throat. Harry could feel the soft trail of his lover’s bangs over the curve of his arse, the touch and press of Draco’s nose. And his tongue, licking… flicking… _oh,_ inside him. Wasn’t kissing that mouth again tonight, that was for sure, but Merlin, he loved that mouth, loved it more than he loved the constant sniping that sounded from it, more than the sensual curve it made in that handsome face, more than what it felt like around his cock or his fingers or his tongue. No, he loved it most when it was on him and in him like this. 

Draco tilted his head. And sucked. Harry bucked into the mattress, and couldn’t still the frenzied thrusting of his hips. “Malfoy—bloody liar—”

“Bloody talented,” came the muffled response. Another slick thrust inside him. “Say it, Potter.” The sharp prick of teeth. “You’re a hypocrite.”

“Damn right, I am,” Harry breathed. “Oh, gods, stop _talking_ —”

Draco stopped talking, stopped everything but the task at hand, and Harry began to moan little broken words, thrusting harder and harder into the mattress. He felt Draco’s body shudder all up and down his leg, felt hot panting against the tender skin just beneath his lover’s mouth. Gods, he was going to come. He really was. Had to come before Draco did. Wanted to get his hands on that body, his fingers down those trousers and his mouth on the smooth curve of that hip, taste the sweat on that belly, breathe the breathlessness trapped within. He scrambled to get a hand down underneath himself and gripped, squeezed, cried out into the sheet, thrust once, twice—Draco’s tongue moved within him, on the bitter edge of him—and came without air to banish the glazed spots, the blank spots.

Harry drew a single deep breath, then pushed out with his bent leg, heaving Draco off of him, and flipped over, still without enough air, still trying to get it, and grabbed the other man’s coat, pulling him up onto the bed. Draco’s forehead was a sheen of sweat, his lips red and swollen. Hair even more of a tangle than before. He looked dazed; his eyes were full of heat unsatisfied. Harry yanked him down on top of himself, feeling his nerve endings fire at the oversensitivity, the delicious, cool dampness of a rain-soaked coat. He could hear himself breathing too hard as he scrabbled at Draco’s belt, shoving the coat off of one shoulder, tugging open the buttons of his shirt, snarling fingers into that mop of hair. He jerked Draco’s belt buckle loose, popped a button on his trousers, and shoved a hand in and down. Draco’s whole body writhed, his mouth going slack. Harry rolled him onto his back, cupping with his hand, stroking and fingering until Draco’s nails dug into his shoulder blade. He pushed his other hand down the back of Draco’s pants and rubbed his finger up his cleft, and Draco let out the most perfect, ragged groan Harry had ever heard him make. His lover’s body began to thrust, tiny and quick, gasps coming in time. Harry bore down on him, trapping his one hand beneath them, his other hand between them. Draco’s chest gleamed sweaty in the lamplight between the open folds of his shirt and Harry latched his mouth there and bit lightly with his teeth.

Draco’s body lost control, and Harry basked in the instant it happened, the moment when he knew Draco had no idea how quickly he was moving, how loud his gasps were, how every other one was a plea for more and _gods_ and _please, Harry_ , the way they were coupled with those wrenching little moans. The final fall. Harry arced his hips down forcefully again and again into Draco’s, feeling the other man thrusting up to meet him, feeling the hard pulse of him within the grip of his fingers, and finally hearing the last strangled sound that he always heard just before the edge dropped out beneath his lover. Draco’s fingers dug into his back painfully; his head shot back and his entire body jerked against the bed. 

Taut. Arched. Half-clothed and careless and perfect.

Draco collapsed with a long groan, legs falling loose onto the bed. Harry fell down on top of him, liking the press of both fabric and damp skin against him, the feeling of the tight little shudders still dancing through Draco’s hips just beneath his fingers. He eased his hand out of the back of Draco’s trousers but left the one in the front where it was. Draco’s shaking hand found his newly freed one and clasped onto it, interlocking fingers. Lifted it to still-swollen lips and pressed it there.

Harry sighed, long and full-bodied. “That’s disgusting. You know where that’s been?”

Draco sniffed, glazed eyes sliding shut. “Same place as my mouth. Couldn’t give a rat’s arse.”

“Mmm.” Harry pulled his hand free and wrapped his arm tightly around Draco’s torso, hugging him close. He lay his head down on Draco’s heaving chest and shut his eyes.

~tbc~


	6. A Slight Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's feeling a bit under the weather.

The first time it happened, Draco managed to be in the middle of dissecting a new Potions contract. He’d never been so glad of his office’s rubbish bin.

The second was in the middle of the night two days later, and the bathroom floor felt cold under his bare knees. The flat remained silent even after he’d washed himself up, and Harry had not even fluttered an eyelash when he crawled grumpily back into bed and tugged the blankets up under his chin, and Harry’s arm back around his chest.

The third time, Harry opened the bathroom door without preamble, work shirt half buttoned, tie flung over one shoulder. He was in the midst of shrugging a rather fetching suit coat on.

“You’re sick, you know,” Harry said in a low, amused voice. “Should see a Healer.”

Draco drew a deep breath and touched his belly with one hand. He looked Harry up and down. “Where are you off to so trussed up?”

Harry rearranged his tie properly and came into the bathroom, squatting down on the balls of his feet next to Draco. “New contractor’s considering Bill’s firm to break down a few older curses on his family’s property. I’m supposed to look presentable. Are you alright?”

“Haven’t even thrown up properly yet,” Draco quipped and sat back on his heels, not liking the strange taste in his mouth. Harry peered into the empty toilet, frowning, and squeezed Draco’s shoulder.

“How long?”

Draco shrugged. “Five days.” Of this horrid urge to vomit. The headaches… Well, that was stress and nothing more until he heard otherwise from a qualified individual.

Harry’s brows turned downward. He rubbed a hand down Draco’s back. “I could take a sick day.”

Draco shook his head, irritated. “Oh, don’t be a sot, Potter. Bloody flu.”

The corners of Harry’s delectable mouth twitched. “Right then. I’ll just leave you to it.”

Draco humphed, and then clutched the toilet, struggling to steady the roll of his stomach. Harry’s imperative floated back to him from the doorway. “Go to St. Mungo’s.”

Draco waved a hand weakly in his lover’s direction. Blast it, he wasn’t making the damn trip to that joke of a hospital. Eventually Harry departed, and the flat and Draco’s innards went quiet again. He made it halfway back to bed on unsteady legs, feeling… fairly none the worse for wear. Damnable nausea couldn’t ever seem to make up its mind. He lowered himself to sit on the bed.

And his head began to pound. Draco winced and touched his temple. “Fucking hell, all _right_.”

* * *

The Healer sifted through his notes, lips thin in thought, and Draco adjusted gingerly in his chair, wary of jolting his precariously steady stomach. He tapped his fingers against his lips. Looked out the window until he realised he’d been staring at the same stretch of sky for nearly a minute.

“It does look as though you’ve contracted some sort of flu.” The Healer frowned and circled something with his quill. “But you said the headaches have been occurring for a longer period of time?”

Draco roused himself and considered. “Three weeks, at least.”

Black eyes fixed on him penetratingly. “And how long before the nausea?”

“Two weeks.”

The Healer flicked his wand in a complicated series of motions, and more files appeared in the air, drifting down to the desk. He thumbed through one and something peculiar opened in his expression. “Mr Malfoy, has there been any alteration in the taste of your food? A noticeable change?”

Draco straightened, feeling something twist uneasily in his chest. “Water tastes metallic,” he said hesitantly.

The Healer nodded once, tapped the file with one finger, and let out a soft exhalation. “Well. It’s not the flu.”

Draco frowned. “And what _would_ it be, then, if you don’t mind?”

The Healer eyed him deliberately. As if he were recalculating everything. Draco shifted uncomfortably.

“I’ll need to ask you several rather personal questions,” the man said at last.

Draco met his gaze cleanly. Gave him an un-amused smile. “By all means.”

* * *

Harry looked graceful and relaxed, draped into his chair like that. The restaurant’s lighting was almost too soft, but the black of Harry’s hair stood out, and his eyes were piercing in a way Draco didn’t often get to see.

“We can go,” Harry said for the third time. “If you’re not feeling up to it.”

Draco shook his head and eased back in his chair. He didn’t feel sick anymore, at least, but he’d long since given up on his water. “Stop mothering. You’re not good at it.”

Harry laughed. He nudged his fork further onto his empty plate, and then pushed the plate itself away. “Just thought I’d appeal to your keen sense of self-absorption.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I haven’t bloody well lost it, Potter. Salazar. It’ll be a dark day in hell before I give up my egotism willingly. What was in your beer anyway, to make you suggest such nonsense?”

“Whisky, Draco. This would be whisky.” Harry reached long fingers and plucked the lime from the amber liquid. He held it in his hand, and a drop slid down over his thumb. “We could have stayed in.”

They certainly could have. Draco had let himself through the door to Harry’s flat to find its owner sprawled in a living room chair, tie flung over the armrest and shirt unbuttoned to reveal his entire glorious chest and stomach. Harry had looked that edgy sort of tired, the kind that knocks a person down, but won’t let him sleep. 

_Hey._

Harry’s eyes came just a little more to life. His smile was warm. _Hey._

And suddenly Draco didn’t want to do it there. He gestured at the door. _Dinner?_

 _You up for that?_ Harry sat up a little straighter, but made no move to rise. Draco smirked.

_I’m hungry, is what I am. Now get up, or the offer’s out._

“You’re certainly looking better.” Harry gestured at the half-eaten meal in front of Draco. “I know I couldn’t handle Bolognese on a twitchy stomach.”

Draco smiled indulgently. “Everything in moderation, Harry.”

“Well,” Harry returned, leaning forward and cocking his elbow up on the table. His forearm was bare and sinewy in the light, skin very smooth. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” His eyes slid over Draco warmly, and it wasn’t the heat of sex. “You’re a right prat when you’re sick.”

Draco smiled back belatedly. Picked up his glass and swirled the water inside. “I’d apologise for waking you constantly, but then, you never cared those other nights when I wasn’t sick, now did you?”

Harry’s mouth hitched up into an appreciative grin. “It’s too bad, really. Just when you’re feeling well again, and I’ve got to be in Cardiff for the entire weekend.”

Draco frowned at his napkin, wiping at his hands. “Don’t remind me.”

“You went to a Healer today, I hope?”

It wasn’t a question as much as an admonishment. Draco breathed out through his nose, narrowing his eyes. “Yes, Harry, I went.”

But the only self-righteous chastising he got was a satisfied nod. Harry looked down at his glass of whisky. Nodded again. “Good.”

Spoken almost to himself. For just a moment, Draco’s mood slipped and he heard the Healer again.

_Have you been taking any potions?_

_A few. For the headaches._

The man had nodded, lips pursing pensively. _Alright. We’ll get you sorted onto the proper potions soon enough._

“Well,” Draco said, breaking himself forcefully back into the present, the restaurant, and Harry’s sharp stare. 

Harry raised an amused eyebrow. “Yes, well. Think we’ve exerted ourselves enough for the public this evening?”

Draco cocked his head at the other man. “Have something in particular in mind, Potter?”

Harry dropped the lime back into his glass and flicked the juice from his fingertips. Sucked lightly on the pad of his thumb. Draco watched, riveted.

“I was thinking the balcony. Yours. Can’t be hard to magic up a comfortable chaise lounge, and half the thrill will be whether or not the Harrisons peek over their railing.”

“The balcony, is it?”

Harry’s smile was blindingly white. “I like you in the moonlight.”

Draco smiled back, but couldn’t hold it and reached for Harry’s hand instead. His fingers closed on solid warmth. “I can’t have sex with you tonight.”

Harry’s inhalation drew long and released just as slowly. His eyebrows rose. “You have something better planned?”

Draco snorted. Shook his head. The dull, present ache in his stomach felt heavier. “Healer’s orders.”

Harry dropped his chin, a concerned twist to his features. “Merlin. They ordered you off sex?”

Draco finally gave in and snagged his glass of water for something to do, grimacing at the metallic flavour that rolled over his tongue. “Don’t think you’re getting off the hook,” he said, raising one forefinger. “It’s just until my medicine kicks in.”

A single blink. Harry looked around the table’s vicinity once, eyes roving, but Draco wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Fingers tightened around his; Draco could see the white of Harry’s knuckles. The other man leaned forward, and Draco saw immediately that Harry’s true age had at last driven out the minor vestiges of impish amusement that were usually present. “What sort of flu is this?” Harry said in a much lower voice than before.

Draco smirked, raising one hand to press against his temple, driving the tiny sliver of hurt back into submission. The air felt stagnant. “It’s…” He leaned forward, resting on his elbows, and tongued the words into some semblance of order. Normalcy, while he still had the option. “It’s the sort you contract by means of a _very_ enjoyable and very… mutually stimulating activity. Though the result isn’t exactly up to the same standard. If you gather my meaning.”

Harry did not say anything. Draco finally looked up to find his lover staring at him across the table. His eyes were unreadable, his face tense. Draco waited, having nothing else to say, and Harry took a breath and at last looked down. His shoulders hunched a bit. He met Draco’s eyes again.

“Is it serious?”

And who could have predicted that the mere uttering of words would be so tiring? Draco leaned back, still uncertain of where his eyes belonged. “Not especially. Merlin, Harry, don’t look so dour. It’s just a stupid bug.”

He felt Harry move on the other side of the table. Heard him clear his throat. “Draco.”

But he didn’t say anything else. Draco cursed himself for letting the conversation drop into such discomfort and forced himself to look up at Harry. “Look, it’s… It’s rare. They think it’s something called Erato’s Syndrome. And you’ll have to be tested, I’m afraid.”

Harry nodded once. His jaw was awfully tight. But his touch, when it came across Draco’s fingers, startled him. “Are you alright?” Harry asked quietly.

Draco blinked at him. Shrugged. “As well as I ever am. They’ve started me on a potion treatment. It’s… quieting things down.”

“Do you want…” But Harry stopped and sat back. His hand slid off of Draco’s and Draco fought the urge to reach after it. Harry took another drink of his whisky, swirling the glass. His brow furrowed. “We’ve been careful.”

Draco’s appetite, already a shaky prospect, finally deserted him for good. He set his napkin on top of his plate and smoothed the front of his shirt down. “I’d feel better if you went in and got tested.”

It sounded too clipped, even to him. Harry’s lips twisted into a faint smile, directed downward at the table. He folded his arms across the surface and met Draco’s eyes. “You want me to come over tonight?”

Perhaps it was just the lingering unease, the billowing of too many adjustments. Draco cleared his throat and signaled the waiter. “No, it’s alright. I’ve a follow-up appointment early tomorrow before work. Better if I get to sleep.”

Harry nodded. The bill arrived and he busied himself with his coat pockets. But Draco got to his first and laid the correct amount on the table. Harry looked at him silently, but Draco didn’t meet his gaze.

It wasn’t until they were nearly out the door of the restaurant, Draco leaning on the doorjamb just a little less steadily than usual to await the exit of an elderly couple, that Harry moved up behind him and took his arm. It looked casual, but Draco felt the sure grip of Harry’s hand on his elbow more distinctly than ever before.

“Come on. Shouldn’t be walking or Apparating. Let’s get a cab.”

Draco smiled faintly as Harry strode to the curb and lifted his hand, coat whipping about his knees. Harry’s collar was turned up around his throat, and his hair rushed and shifted over his forehead in soft gusts. Draco joined him at the edge of the street and waited, brushing up against the other man’s side.

* * *

“Positive, then,” Draco muttered.

The Healer smiled at him sympathetically. “Afraid so. You’ll be taking this potion, twice a day, and you may start right now.”

He handed Draco a small phial made of thick, clear glass with an iridescent violet liquid swirling around inside. “I suggest dosing just before meals so as to cover the taste of the potion afterward.”

Draco pulled the stopper free and took a cautious sip. Decided that the Healer was right. “Salazar’s unholy children.”

“Appalling, isn’t it?” The Healer snorted. “Drink up.”

Draco swallowed the rest and was unsettled a second later when the room tilted slightly. He gripped the back of the nearest chair. “And it always does that, I suppose.”

“The dizziness is mild and should dissipate in a moment. Take deep breaths.”

Draco sat down in the chair slowly, setting the empty phial on the Healer’s desktop. Within seconds, his headache had faded into a dull pressure behind his eyes. “Certainly works quickly.”

The Healer returned to his desk with several crisp rolls of parchment in hand. “I’m afraid that’s only the first progression. Patients who undergo this treatment usually experience an increase in headaches and other symptoms for the first five days or so. Then it will begin tapering off.”

Draco grimaced, brushing his hair from his eyes delicately. “You wouldn’t have any idea of when I may have… contracted this, would you?”

“Actually, we can be fairly precise about this one. Erato’s has a timeline that it sticks to rather fanatically in ninety-nine percent of cases. I’ll need to perform a few additional tests to count you out of that remaining percentile, but frankly, the inherent strength of your magical aura answers most of my questions. Your magic is most likely the reason you were susceptible to this disease in the first place.” 

Draco frowned. “Just how virulent is this little malady?”

“It’s quite rare. We don’t test for it normally because the proper methods are very complex and costly. But it’s easily treatable and rarely has any lasting repercussions.” The Healer tapped his wand against the first roll of parchment, breaking the magical seal in a sparkle of blue. “Here is your preliminary blood-work. Fortunately, you came back negative for everything else, so this is it. I took the opportunity to run several tests on your magical potency as well. Your family’s capabilities are legendary. And as this condition adheres specifically and directly to an individual’s magical aura, I’m afraid you were more than a prime candidate.”

“It’s magic-specific?”

The Healer nodded. “One of a very few such illnesses, sexually transmitted or otherwise.”

Draco sat up a little straighter in his chair and licked his lips. “I am currently involved with a person who is… very much on the potent end of the magical spectrum as well. How likely is it that I’ve passed it on to him?”

“I’d need to see him to be certain, but I would say that he has a good chance of already having contracted it. However, if you’ve been utilizing magical methods of protection, he should be fine.”

Draco rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “He hasn’t been exhibiting symptoms,” he said wearily.

“And he probably wouldn’t for another few months.” The Healer flicked open another roll of parchment. “That’s the trouble, and ironically, the saving grace, of this condition. It takes a good deal of time for symptoms to manifest. How many sexual partners have you had in the last eight months, Mr Malfoy?”

Draco exhaled, thinking. “Four. Including the man I’m seeing now. Though it’s been… just him for a little over five months now.”

“Your ‘donor,’ shall we say, will have been someone you were with at least seven months ago. I can tell from your test results that he was an individual who likewise is particularly adept at magic, and especially powerful, though you will need to inform all of your partners in the last eight months about your condition so that they may be tested.”

“I’ve a couple of names that might fit the bill,” Draco muttered. “Neither of whom I’d particularly like to speak to again.”

* * *

_To _______________

_I apologise for the abruptness of this letter, but I feel it only necessary to inform you that I have contracted Erato’s Syndrome since the last time we were involved, and that you would be wise to undergo the proper testing with a licensed Healer in order to ascertain whether you have contracted it from me, or perhaps given it to me._

_Sincerely,  
Draco Malfoy_

* * *

Draco’s headache was raging when he finally got the door to his flat open and stepped inside. He dropped his briefcase in the middle of the hall and pressed a hand against the wall, shoving his shoes off. Blasted sex; he was never having it again. He was halfway to the living room couch with every intention of chucking his cloak viciously at one of the lamps before he realised that said lamp was on instead of off, as he’d left it.

The sound of running water from the kitchen turned his head, and Draco thought vaguely about pulling his wand. Decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. “Bloody buggering—” He made for the doorway and stopped.

Harry was just toweling his hands dry at the sink. He still wore his work trousers, and a green shirt that had seen better days. “You’re a little late,” he said, then turned around to look at Draco properly. His eyebrows shot up. “You look terrible.”

Draco frowned, taking the opportunity to lean against the doorframe rather than stand upright. “Thought you had Cardiff.”

Harry shrugged, tossing the towel over the edge of the sink. “Cancelled it. Andy can handle things without me.”

“Hm.” Draco made his way to the nearest chair and fell into it, sliding both hands through his hair. His whole face hurt. Had to be that damnable potion, hard at work. He smirked. “Losing income because of me. They have a name for people like that, you know.”

“Oh, and what’s that?” Harry returned distractedly.

“Idiots.”

“You’re welcome,” was Harry’s reply, this time amused. Something clinked down onto the table in front of Draco, and he opened his eyes and came face to face with a fragrant, steaming plate of stir fry over basmati.

“Oh, seven gods, you’re a life saver,” Draco sighed, picking up the fork beside the plate and leaning over to bathe his face in the steam. “Thought I was going to have to call in for delivery.”

A hand rubbed the space between his shoulders briefly and lifted away. Harry kicked back into the chair next to him. His shirt stretched rather nicely across his chest and stomach. Draco put down his fork and groaned, remembering the potion. “Oh, fuck.”

“Where is it?” Harry asked. Draco shook his head.

“No, I’ll get it.” He pushed up from the table and made his way back into the living room and his cloak. A laborious search through four pockets finally yielded up a phial of purple liquid. Draco yanked the stopper out and knocked the entire thing back in one swallow that made his throat sting, then grimaced at the chalky taste. He could feel Harry watching him from the kitchen.

He sat down again at the table and indulged in a forkful of seasoned vegetables without looking at Harry. “Potion tastes bloody awful.”

Harry nodded, a slow, considering nod. He took a drink from the glass of water he’d brought out for Draco. “Picked up some groceries for you.”

Draco blinked, feeling the initial vertigo from the dose weaving through him. “Cheers.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “You were out of Devonshire.”

Draco smirked back. “Well, if someone didn’t keep finding creative methods of using it up, I wouldn’t be.”

Harry’s shoulders shook with contained laughter. “Put it on my tab.”

Draco shook his head, swallowing another mouthful. “Bloody arse.”

Dinner was an easy affair, full of seconds that Draco didn’t know he’d be hungry for. His body craved it in ways he hadn’t expected, and when he got up at last, it was to find that that same body had let go of its stamina and was demanding that he sleep or suffer passing out right there on the floor. Draco left Harry in the kitchen and headed for the shower, slicking liquid heat over his skin until he was flushed red and deliciously tired. He fell into bed with the lamp on, casting a pool of warm light over his blankets, and listened to the sound of dishes clinking in the kitchen.

* * *

Draco woke in the blackness of his bedroom, chilled to the bone. He blinked, beyond tired, and curled his arms around his body under the piles of blankets. Couldn’t stop shivering. His muddled mind couldn’t make proper sense of why. His toes felt numb, his legs deeply cold, as if touched by bare midnight air. He pulled his knees up to his chest, as close as he could manage. Felt sore all over.

Seconds later, he was even colder.

Draco grabbed the topmost blanket and sat up, wrapping it around his body with shaking hands, unable to keep still. Beside him, Harry rolled over and mumbled something.

Gods. He was so _tired_. So cold. Chills, then. Draco pressed his fist to his eyes and the unknown length of the night before him stretched horribly.

A hand settled lightly against his back. Harry’s sleep-scratchy voice sounded. “Bad night?”

Draco snorted half-heartedly. Nodded. Harry rolled toward him. “C’mere. Here, come on.”

Harry coaxed him back down onto the bed and flung the multitude of blankets over them both. He tucked himself tightly against Draco’s back and embraced him, a warm, full weight of arms against his chest. Harry’s leg slid over Draco’s, as if his lover were wrapping his whole self around him. Divine heat beat into Draco’s back and limbs. Harry found his clenched fingers and snugged one hand around them, sighing sleepily.

“Alright?”

Draco nodded, blinking against the gentle sting in his eyes. Harry leaned even closer and Draco felt the soft press of lips on his nape. Again. And again.

Harry’s head came to rest in the crook of Draco’s neck. His breathing slowed. Evened. The shivering began to slip away from Draco’s body, and the exhaustion had its way once more. Draco eased Harry’s hand up and kissed the heated fingers.

Shut his eyes and sank.

* * *

He opened his eyelids again to find the familiar bleary outline of his antique dresser against the far wall. It took him some seconds to understand that the close, heavy mass atop him was a cocoon of blankets. His body felt comfortably heated, and so fatigued. Difficult to move.

The light in his room was… wrong. Draco turned over with a groan. His bed was empty, and sunlight streamed in under the drawn drapes, casting shadows too pale for dawn.

Late for work then. Hours late. He thought about it for long enough to realise that he didn’t care in the slightest.

He sat up gingerly. His head whirled a little bit, but nothing like the headache of the previous evening. Draco dragged one of the blankets over his shoulders and stood, shuffling across his room, out the door and down the hall into the bathroom. He took his potion dose and splashed his face with warm water, toweled off, then headed for the living room, one hand on the wall for purchase.

Harry sat outside on the balcony, wrapped in sunshine, the Prophet spread over his bent knees. Draco could see bare toes under the hems of jeans that clung closely to Harry’s thighs and draped enticingly over his calves. He’d put on a black button-down shirt, but left it open, and his bare chest rose and fell serenely as he breathed.

Draco waited until Harry had set down his mug of… whatever. “It’s late.”

Harry glanced up with a raised eyebrow. “Sleep well?”

Draco hugged the blanket closer about his shoulders and stretched his neck until it popped. “I’m due at work.”

The other man stood, flipping the paper shut with one hand. “I Flooed them around eight and told them you were taking a personal day.”

Draco squinted at him. His head was still swimming. “You didn’t ask me.”

“You needed it,” Harry said simply.

“I should be hexing you for that.” Draco yawned. Looked around and nodded. “But I haven’t got my wand. It’ll have to wait.”

Harry was fighting a smile. “Your mercy exceeds all bounds.”

“Prick.” Draco rubbed the back of his neck and shuffled back around toward the hall. “Going to bed again.”

“You want breakfast?”

He stopped, looking back over his shoulder at Harry. “I… Not particularly hungry yet.”

Harry just nodded. “I’ll get you up for lunch.”

“Mmm.”

* * *

_To Marcus Havenfeld:_

_No, you bloody twat, I do not want to rekindle the old flame. The former was simply a missive to inform you of the fact that I have contracted Erato’s Syndrome and you need to get yourself tested. All I know is that I didn’t give it to you, but you may well have given it to me. Go to a Healer._

_~Draco Malfoy_

 

He wanted to gouge his own eyes out. Or maybe just lock the window before the next owl arrived. He hadn’t been expecting a bloody response. 

For fuck’s sake. He _should_ have expected it from Mark.

It hadn’t been Mark who’d given the disease to him, though. He just knew, somewhere in his bones. And the other option was a little too unsettling to contemplate right then. Merlin’s wand, he was damn lucky he hadn’t been sleeping with any Muggles in those eight months. Erato’s didn’t especially go for them, considering they were missing the certain crucial element of, oh, say, _magic_. But there was always that chance that he’d fuck a Muggle with latent magic, one who could contract the disease, or some form of it, and then have no way of warning said sexual partner.

_They, of course, wouldn’t manifest symptoms in the same way, Mr Malfoy. There are several Muggle sexually transmitted diseases that exhibit similar symptoms. It’s not exactly unheard of; if necessary, we could find them._

The Healer had also imparted the charming news of his findings as far as the most recent blood-work went.

Erato’s was certainly a piece of work. Apparently Draco had his own unique little strain of the damnable disease running through his veins, thanks to his very particular magic and the magic of the person who’d passed it along to him. Made it easier to guess at who’d been the culprit, however.

And Draco was really hoping not to receive an owl from that person as well. God knew what it might say.

“Seven months,” he muttered, resisting the urge to crumple the scrap of parchment. “Seven— fucking hell.” He flung his quill down and slumped back onto the couch, trying to count again. He’d only counted through it fifty times, and each time gave him the same result, but he couldn’t keep his mind from venturing back down the same road again and again.

Four men. Or rather, three men and Harry. It was always “other men,” and Harry. Except for the time with the bloke from York, and then before that, when Harry’d been rather irritatingly serious about a tall brunet wizard in the broomstick trade somewhere near Manchester. Bloody brooms, the damned design was nowhere near comparable to the London-based Nimbus, or even the useless Comet series. Draco clenched the armrest and sat up, kneading his face with both hands.

“Five months you’ve been with Harry.” He must have seemed positively anal at the Healer’s, going over and over the same dates. Being told the same thing in the same calm tone. Thank the gods for patient-Healer privilege; the Prophet would bloody well sink their teeth straight through a story about a Malfoy with a sexually transmitted disease.

And a Malfoy who was inordinately obsessed with proving that he’d been monogamous with a certain lover? Oh hells, break loose and flood the fucking newsprint.

“Shite,” he hissed, and got to his feet, tossing his Eagle Owl a small treat and waving it out the open window with the new letter. His head hurt, his eyes hurt. His pelvis hurt, and that was new. He just wanted to lie down and slip off into oblivion, and who cared if Potter had a bloody emergent case? Draco didn’t want him here anyway, he’d as much as told him so an hour ago.

His flat was too damned quiet. 

“Fine,” he grumbled, making for the bedroom and its dark window drapes, its large, soft bed. “Deal with your curses. Bloody desperate for undisturbed sleep anyway.”

But even now it hardly sounded as lofty as it had when he’d said it to Harry.

* * *

Two days later, Draco’s throat was a mass of raw fire and the artistic blemishes in the bathroom wall tiles were looking eerily familiar. 

He heaved, feeling his shoulders crack, but there was nothing left to throw up, and he hung his head over the toilet for a dizzying moment before the sensation retreated back into the pit of his belly. Draco wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and sat back down gingerly, leaning against the far wall. Even his thin pyjama pants felt too hot against the skin of his legs. He sought for his wand where it had fallen on the bath mat and spelled his mouth free of the sour taste yet again. But the ache deep in his throat remained.

Gods, he was sweaty and miserable, and he looked it, and he didn’t care one whit, and _that_ was the scary part. Draco rubbed his eyes, willing his stomach to calm down. 

“Can you keep down water?”

Harry stood in the doorway, brow furrowed. Draco rolled his eyes and let his head rock back and forth across the tile. “No.”

“How’s your head?” 

“Doesn’t hurt anymore. As much good as that does me.” Draco shut his eyes and let the cool tile at his back breathe into his bare shoulders. 

Harry’s tone was just bordering on condescending, but maybe that was the illness translating. “You need to eat something.”

“ _Thank_ you for your marvelous analysis,” Draco drawled, not bothering to open his eyes. “If I could, I would. As it stands, I haven’t got a whole lot of choice in the matter.”

He heard Harry come into the bathroom, and a second later, a warm hand was threading through his hair. Cupping his chin. Draco let himself feel it for three seconds, and then leaned away from it with a sigh and cracked an eyelid. Harry squinted at him. “What?”

“Face it, Harry,” he murmured, managing a weak smile. “My body’s a germ’s holiday.”

Harry’s green eyes sparkled and his lip curved. “I don’t care,” he said on the verge of a laugh.

The humour was too much. Draco sat upright with a jerk. “Well, you should care,” he muttered.

The other man leaned forward slowly, bracing one hand against the sink, the other mere inches away from Draco on the wall. “Don’t twist my words, Draco,” he said quietly.

Draco sighed. “Look, Harry—” He ran a hand across his forehead, wiping his damp hair away from his face. “Maybe you should just go. I’m not really in the mood for company.”

“And leave you here half unconscious on your bathroom floor? Sorry, Draco, but no. I’ve only done that once, and that was because I was just as drunk as you.” Harry straightened up and leaned against the sink, crossing one leg over the other. He smelled of health and warmth, earthy and sunlit. “Can’t have you dying all alone. Your ghost would be far too melodramatic.”

“Not going to die, Potter,” Draco huffed. He stared at the wall and thought about water that he certainly didn’t feel up to drinking again. Ah, wishful thinking. “Forgive me for wanting to retain _some_ of my dignity. Arsehole.”

“Draco,” came the easy reply, “neither of us has any dignity left after what happened at that hotel in Perth two years ago. But for the sake of argument, I’d like you to know that you don’t look foolish or undignified. It’s alright to be sick. Happens to everyone.”

“Oh, yes, well, when it happens to you, be sure to open your doors to the public eye,” Draco snapped, glaring up at his lover. “I’ll be more than happy to come over and spoon-feed you like some sniveling child just for the occasion.”

Harry’s body had gone a little rigid. “I’m only trying to help you.”

“In some vague sense of the word,” Draco muttered. 

“What the hell’s gotten you in such a bad mood?” Harry said caustically, his forehead furrowed. 

Draco swung his head toward his lover, not even bothering to temper his words anymore. “You bloody well didn’t have to stay, you know.”

“No, I didn’t have to. I chose to.” Harry’s jaw clenched, and the look in his eyes had turned steely. Draco felt a shiver run down his spine, and he let it fuel his annoyance, let his tongue lash out where it desperately wanted to instead of going down the less comfortable path his thoughts had been pushing on him for the last week.

So much easier to be angry.

“Well, maybe you should _choose_ to go back home,” he snapped, and turned away, clenching his hands into fists atop his knees. “I’m perfectly capable of being sick in solitude.”

There was a brief, heated silence.

“Fine, Malfoy.” Harry stood, wiping his palms on his jeans. “But if you think this show of bad attitude is going to drive me out, think again. I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. We’ll both be here; we’ll just do it without speaking to each other.”

Draco rubbed his face, feeling like he was swaying. Like the room was swaying. He listened as Harry’s footsteps receded. It was building in his chest, threatening to pour out of him. “Harry—”

He heard the other man stop. Heard him breathing quietly just out in the hall. 

“I’m—”

Sorry? Yes. But the word was pushed aside. Draco exhaled and leaned back, resting against the wall and drawing his knees even closer. Didn’t like feeling so opened. He stared up at Harry, at the vague impatience, the irritated clench of the other man’s fists.

“Harry, I didn’t sleep around on you,” he said at last, softly.

The tumble of Harry’s expression was startling. His brows drew together and his mouth opened as if he would speak. He came slowly back into the bathroom and crouched down, one hand on the sink for balance. His other hand rose and touched down on Draco’s left knee. “I… Draco. Is that what you—”

He stopped. Draco shrugged, too worn out to deal with it anymore. He shut his eyes and concentrated on the chilly tiles leeching his heat away. Gods, what a mess.

“I never thought that,” Harry said quietly. Draco opened his eyes.

“What?”

Harry stared at him, face solemn and boyish behind his glasses. He squeezed Draco’s knee. “You. Sleeping around.”

Draco shivered, unable to stop the quake of his shoulders. “Harry, I swear,” he whispered. “There’s a timeline, and it’s just not possible—”

Harry touched his face, a tiny smile on his lips. “Draco, I know the Erato’s timeline. I’m familiar with how it works.”

“You are.”

Harry’s hand stroked his knee soothingly. He tilted his head. “Not exactly your everyday STD. But I’ve come across it before.”

Draco just looked at him, incapable of doing much else. Harry sighed. “Look. It happens. Could have been a lot worse.”

“I might have given it to you, Harry,” Draco said.

“And I’ll get tested. Alright?”

Again, Draco’s voice failed him. Harry reached up and brushed his sweaty fringe back off of his forehead. “Draco, I know you were sleeping with a lot of people. We were both sleeping with a lot of people. You do know that I trust you, yeah?”

“I prefer to think so,” Draco muttered. “But I also prefer to face facts and we both know neither of us has had the best track record for monogamy in recent years. It’s the kind of thing a person could get used to. Comfortable with.”

Harry’s brow pinched. He tapped a finger on Draco’s knee absently. “Well… Do you think _I’ve_ been sleeping with other people?”

“No.”

“Would you like me to?”

Draco scowled, squeezing his fingers against his legs. “You know the answer to that.”

Harry nodded, and it wasn’t until his face gained some colour that Draco realised it had lost any to begin with. His lover licked his lips and drew his hands away, sitting up straighter. Draco didn’t especially like the look on his face.

“I remember liking… sleeping with a lot of men. And I know you liked it, don’t even start, Draco. There are just some things that I’d rather—” Harry’s lips thinned. He looked directly at Draco. “If it’s ever about that, I’d want you to say something.”

Draco looked back for a long moment before it hit him. He rested his head back on the wall and covered his face with both hands. “Oh, bloody buggering— I’m not getting tired of this, Harry. Of us. Fucking hell.” His stomach rolled in a very timely reminder, and he pressed his forehead to his knees and groaned. “It’s just a stupid STD. Not supposed to bring our entire relationship into question.”

Harry’s hands closed over his. “The questions would still be there, Draco.”

“Look.” Draco pushed away from the wall and ripped some tissue off of the toilet paper roll, wiping his forehead and neck before settling back again. “I just want to get this out of my system, and then forget I ever had the bloody thing.”

Harry’s thumb tracked small circles over his knee. It was the kind of touch Draco couldn’t get enough of, and it was so simple and so very… unique. He’d had enough lovers, enough longtime lovers even, to know that not everyone did that kind of thing. 

Hoped from time to time, when he lay awake in the dark with Harry breathing quietly beside him, that Harry hadn’t done it with anyone else.

“You know who gave it to you?” Harry asked in a low voice.

Draco squirmed, scowling. “I have a good idea. And I don’t care to rehash it, if it’s all the same to you.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s the same either way. I’m not upset about him.”

“And you shouldn’t be. I had to write to him about it, and I don’t particularly want to hear back from him.”

“It’s just a letter, Draco.”

He sneered at Harry, feeling a wave of sickness sweep up and fade back again. “You know, unlike the golden saviour, I’m not proud of some of the people I’ve slept with, and he’s one of them.”

Harry frowned. “You think I’ve had the perfect run of lovers, do you?”

Draco sighed. “I just don’t like the memories that come with him, alright? I wasn’t exactly happy then, if you’ll remember. It was right before the two of us…” He gestured between himself and Harry, and let his hand drop. “I wasn’t happy. Alright?”

Harry nodded. Draco felt so awkward, and it clutched at his belly in an entirely new sort of way. Salazar. Harry and he talked about old lovers all the time. Shared stories. Shared bungles and sometimes even found they’d shared lovers. It shouldn’t have made him feel so strange. But this one was most definitely awkward.

_Oh, yes, please, banter with me about the arse who infected my body with this charming ailment, Harry. Care for a crumpet?_

_Let’s just discuss the stupid things we did while wishing for another person._

He wondered, not for the first time, if Harry had particular things he regretted.

“Are you happy now?” Harry asked presently.

Draco met his gaze. “Aside from this horrid urge to vomit?”

Harry snorted. Draco swallowed once, and nodded. “I’m fairly content. Yes.”

“Good to know,” was all Harry said. Draco studied his lover’s face intently across the small space, suddenly unwilling to drag his eyes away. He’d seen Harry Potter in just about every light, witnessed the way that light played over each curve and fall of muscle, each expanse of skin. It felt a little desperate, a little helpless, to _need_ to touch a certain person so often. If he hadn’t been dealing with it for years already, Draco would have felt terribly exposed by it.

“Harry,” he said, and stopped. He reached up and stroked Harry’s face, ran his fingertips down the side of his throat. Trailed down his shoulder all the way to his hand and threaded his fingers between Harry’s darker ones. Pulled lightly, not so much drawing Harry to him as drawing himself toward Harry. 

The other man’s eyes were rich and dark, and they trained on his face intimately. Harry leaned closer, until Draco could smell his hair. He’d meant for the kiss to be soft, chaste, but his lips trembled against the corner of Harry’s mouth. Harry let out a tiny breath and turned into it, opening his mouth and letting the kiss deepen, stroking his tongue against Draco’s and taking control right out of his hands with shocking ease. Draco cupped his hand around the back of Harry’s neck and slumped into it, feeling loose and woozy and all sorts of unfettered.

At last Harry broke the kiss with a gentle press of his mouth to Draco’s chin. Draco sighed, but opened his eyes again when Harry gripped his hand and pulled him away from the wall. “What—”

Harry kept one hand flat against his shoulders as he crawled forward on his knees and slipped behind him, settling back with legs bent on either side of Draco’s. He urged Draco backward as well, until he could feel himself pressed all along Harry’s front, his hips resting in the warm crook of Harry’s thighs. He sighed again and shut his eyes. Licked his lips. “Now I know it’s love,” he murmured.

Harry’s chest vibrated with a gentle chuckle. “And how do you figure?”

“Kissed me,” Draco returned. “Sick and all.”

Harry’s hand rubbed the top of his right thigh. “Don’t get too excited. I saw you clean your mouth earlier.”

Draco huffed tiredly and relaxed against Harry. The window spilled golden sunlight over their bent legs, warming the silence.

~tbc~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erato's Syndrome was named after Erato, the Greek muse of erotic poetry and song. You can find more information about her on [this Wikipedia page](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erato).


	7. Table Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco manages his last day of treatment with a little help.

Draco was halfway through an annoyingly obvious denial of a new memory enhancement elixir when a grey speckled owl with a wise face soared through his open window and fluttered down gracefully atop his desk, bearing a large complement of post.

“You wouldn’t accidentally drop that down a Muggle sewer grate if I asked nicely, would you?” he said blandly, marking off an instance of incorrectly used gorse in the potion. 

The owl blinked at him in a nonplussed fashion.

Draco sighed and took the mail. “Treats are in the pouch on the windowsill.”

Five minutes later, one vanished owl later, and four irritating requests for donations later, Draco spelled open the seal of an insubstantial-looking envelope and removed the single, small scrap of parchment. It only had one line.

_I hope you’ve nothing particular to do this evening._

A smile curled its way over Draco’s face. Abruptly, the irritation of his day trickled away. He hummed to himself as he stacked all that donation idiocy and sent it down the hall with a wave of his wand. Rescheduled a meeting for the following week with the head of the German imports department. Selected a golden tipped quill from a choice of five. He flipped the parchment over and scrawled a sentence.

_I might take a nap._

His official post owl was prompt as usual, and gone in seconds. Draco crossed his feet over his desktop and leaned back, closing his eyes and relishing the cool breeze from the window.

The owl was back within fifteen minutes.

_You can try._

Draco smirked. Picked up his quill again.

 _Whatever best benefits me, naturally._

Fifteen minutes later: _Come over when you get off._

Draco cleared his throat and sat up in his chair. It might do to work through lunch this time, he supposed, in order to avoid… staying late.

* * *

Harry’s flat was warm and well-lit. Draco let himself in through the door and tossed his cloak aside in an uncharacteristic heap on the floor. Harry appeared at the end of the entrance hall, wearing a thin brown T-shirt and sweatpants that hugged his hips in all the right places. In other words, everywhere. He looked down at the untidy pile of wizarding cloak, and raised an eyebrow. “Well. Someone’s in a good mood.”

Draco shrugged, exhaling carelessly and stretching both arms over his head until his lower back cracked. “I’m feeling somewhat relaxed.”

“Going to wrinkle.” Harry’s face was positively amused. 

Draco rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and let out a cleansing sigh. “Fuck wrinkles.”

“So,” Harry said, lifting his beer bottle to his lips and taking a light swig. “Last day, yeah?”

“Drank the blasted thing this morning. Final dose.” Draco hooked his thumbs in Harry’s pockets and turned him in a circle as he slipped past him into the living room. “And what did the Healers say to you?”

Harry let himself be pulled along, hips jutting just a bit forward, stomach muscles flexing as he breathed. “That I’m done with the tests, and the potions. They can’t find anything anymore. Didn’t get enough of a foothold, it seems.”

Draco caressed Harry’s bare waist above his sweats with his thumbs, looking at the sliver of tanned skin just under the hem of his shirt. “Good to know,” he said quietly.

For a moment, Harry just swayed into his touch, and Draco felt goosebumps ripple under his fingers. A hand brushed his cheek fleetingly, fingertips lingering. Then Harry snorted. “No… no, you’re not heading this up tonight, Malfoy, you can just forget all your little plans. It’s already too late for that.”

“Is it, now?”

Harry leaned over and set his beer bottle down on the coffee table, and Draco took the opportunity to run his hands over the slope of Harry’s side, drifting up under his shirt as far as he could manage before Harry straightened up again. His lover caught his hands in a gentle, sweeping grip that continued the movement in wide circles. “It is. Gods, look at you. Absolutely helpless.”

“I haven’t had sex in nearly three weeks, Potter,” Draco said in a low tone that dilated Harry’s pupils rapidly. “Helpless is not the word I’d choose.”

Harry grinned at him, drawing him by their linked hands toward the kitchen. “We’re eating off the counter top, I’m afraid. I want the table for you.”

Draco leaned in and tried for a kiss, caught Harry’s mouth in a sultry, glancing touch. Harry ghosted a hand up over his wrist and encircled it with his fingers. “Hm,” Draco said. “Haven’t done it in the kitchen in a while.”

“A long while.” Harry’s arm slid around his waist and locked there for an instant, drawing Draco’s body close and then slipping away, continuing the steady movement up his back, down his side. “Not especially hungry just yet, are you?”

“Skipped lunch,” Draco breathed, darting his tongue out to taste Harry’s throat. Pressing his lips there and murmuring. “Don’t let that stop you.”

Harry made a sound deep in his throat and rocked Draco to him again, this time kissing him full on the mouth, open-mouthed and messy and deep. Gone again. His hands found their way to Draco’s shirt buttons and began tugging them free. “You have… mm, no idea, Draco… how pathetically desperate I am right at this moment.”

“Pathetic looks good on you,” Draco growled, pulling Harry’s shirt up. He’d barely gotten it over Harry’s head when the other man tugged him closer, flattening their chests together and kissing him hard. Draco moaned at the feeling of Harry’s bare skin against his stomach, the swish of his own shirt parting between them, the top buttons straining against their holes. Harry clasped his hips with both hands and slid further down, curving his palms over his arse and back up, and Draco gasped.

“Ohgods—”

Harry rocked their bodies into alignment, edging Draco around in a circle. “Get these off of you. They look awfully confining.”

“Oh, likewise, Potter.” It took almost nothing to drag Harry’s sweats down until they barely hung against his hips, barely covered that perfect line of hair trailing down, and did absolutely nothing to conceal his pointed interest in the situation. Draco locked an arm around Harry’s shoulders and rolled their hips together, and Harry shuddered. His hands jerked forcefully at Draco’s flies and tugged them free. With nothing to hold them in place, his trousers slid down in a whisper-sweep of expensive fabric. Draco grinned against Harry’s mouth.

“And that’s why I ‘practically empty my vaults’ buying clothing.”

Harry growled something noncommittal, and suddenly he was walking Draco backward, pushing him with the lines and arcs of his own body until Draco felt the hard edge of the kitchen table against the backs of his thighs. He opened his mouth, seeking air, seeking Harry, and curled his hands through the tangle of soft hair. Yanked Harry’s glasses off and flung them vaguely aside. He fumbled his feet out of his shoes, out of his trouser legs. Harry loosed one hand from the sure grip on his waist to shove his own sweats down past his knees. In one steady, uncompromising move, he angled his hips and insinuated himself between Draco’s thighs.

“Come on, Potter,” Draco hissed. No sooner had he spoken than Harry had gripped him and lifted, pushed him bodily up onto the table. Draco shuddered, almost beside himself at the hot press of skin against his groin, the solid muscle straining under his fingers where they clutched at Harry’s back. His lover gained a firm hold on his hips and inched him forward, curving his back and whispering a spell. Draco felt it trickle through him, spiking off rivulets of desire in his legs and back and chest. He hooked his knees around Harry’s waist and pressed forward until there was nothing between them, not even the barest hint of air, clutched Harry’s shoulder, dug fingertips in, and breathed raggedly through his mouth as Harry pressed into him.

“Oh… slow… Har— _ohhh_ …”

Harry’s body trembled; his hands slid up Draco’s lower back, easing him closer. He leaned with him, bending him over the table until Draco felt his own shirt bunching under his back and the cool tabletop beneath, and Harry’s chest, firm and panting against his. 

Harry raised himself a little bit and tugged Draco that final inch nearer. Bent again and kissed his chin, his chest, sucked lightly and with wordless murmurs at the soft hollow of his throat. Draco drew an unsteady breath. “Oh, fuck. Missed this. _Really_ missed this…”

Harry eased one knee up onto the table in a steady roll, then the other, pushing Draco further over the tabletop, crawling onto it sinuously. Hooking his hands beneath Draco’s knees and hiking them higher. Draco’s lower back left the table’s surface entirely and the wood creaked and groaned. “Hope you’re not too worn out from work,” Harry whispered breathlessly into his chest. “Night’s young.”

Draco shut his eyes, gripping handfuls of Harry’s hair. And when his lover began the first tiny, excruciating thrusts, he stopped trying to keep quiet.

* * *

“Here.”

Draco opened one eye and took the proffered chip from Harry’s fingers. He chewed lazily, _hmm_ ing. “Pass me another, would you? With vinegar.”

Harry stretched one hand out, muttered an _Accio_ , and the bottle of vinegar came banging out of the cupboard and sailing toward him, followed by another chip. He drizzled the liquid over the piece of potato and settled it gently against Draco’s lips. “Spoiled brat.”

“You should know,” he shot back. He licked at Harry’s fingertips unabashedly, shutting his eyes again and relaxing back against the hard wood of the tabletop. “You’re the main culprit these days.”

Harry snorted. “Right. I do not spoil you.”

“Oh no?” Draco shuffled up onto his elbows, staring Harry directly in the eye. “And what would you call shagging me halfway through the kitchen table?”

Harry grinned cheekily. “Spoiling _me_.”

“Nothing but a symbiotic arrangement,” Draco dismissed loftily. He flicked his fingers toward the bag of chips and was gratified to receive four of them instead of only one. “Salazar, I feel much better. Been too fucking long.”

Harry leaned over him to grab his bottle of beer. Draco snagged it from him and downed half of the contents. Harry swatted him with salty fingers. “Leave off. Go Summon your own.”

Draco gave the beer over, then held out for a few seconds before relieving Harry of the bottle again. He set it down, rolled Harry onto his back over the tabletop and kissed him deeply on the mouth. Harry’s body went slowly limp, one bare knee easing up, hands coming to rest on Draco’s back. Draco savoured salt and alcohol and vinegar with his tongue and lips, tasted thoroughly, and then simply kissed Harry until he needed to breathe again. “Work tomorrow?”

Harry licked his lips sluggishly. His mouth was swollen and sleepy and enticing, and Draco reminded himself that he did in fact want an answer to his question. “Seven hells, no. Think I’d miss this?”

“So I have you tomorrow, too.” Draco nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds rather ominous.”

Harry stretched, letting one arm swing wide and drop down heavily across Draco’s back, where it tightened comfortably. “Food, Draco. Focus.”

“I am absolutely focused,” he said unconcernedly. “Vinegar.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but fumbled for the vinegar bottle and passed it to him. Let out an overly contented sigh. “Bollocks to your vinegar. Want some fish?”

“Mm, maybe later.” Draco pressed Harry’s reaching hand firmly back down onto the table over his head and tongued his mouth open slowly, patiently, until Harry was kissing him again, breathing through his nose and looking utterly unhinged. 

“Best save something for later tonight,” he whispered at last, when they parted to catch their breath. “You know how bloody hungry you get.”

Harry’s only response was to hook a leg around his hips and pull him in again.

~tbc~


	8. Contract Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco tries not to bring his work home with him.

“You know, it’s been a while since I’ve done this.” Draco balled up his trousers and tossed them aside. They hit the office door and slithered to the floor. “Count yourself lucky. Not all our clients receive such benefits with their contracts.”

“Oh, we already like you for the deal, Malfoy. Who else could give us such perfect potions?”

“No one on this green earth.” Draco smirked and swung his leg over the man’s bare thighs. He hitched himself purposefully over his companion’s groin, eliciting a sharp groan. “I’ll kiss _you_. If I want to. Or it’s over. Understood?”

A shrug. “Fair enough. Want a spell?”

“And here I thought you the adventurous sort. I’ll have you know that friction is underrated.”

“You’ve got experience with these over-the-desk jobs, have you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Fucking…” A most delicious gasp. “As you say, fric… friction is underrated.”

Draco positioned himself, then curled his back as he slid down onto his partner, fingers pressing white indents into the broad shoulders beneath them. “You should put more stock in what I say,” he breathed. Rolled his hips slowly forward and clenched gently until he felt an answering shudder. The stretch, the sense of fullness, was brilliant. “I’m known for my intelligence in these matters.”

“For your business savvy too, I see. Might have to…” A quick inhalation. “Might have to convince my boss to let me broker all the deals with your firm. If this is what it gets me.”

Draco tapped a finger firmly on the bare hip snugged so closely against his. It was tight. Gods, it was tight. A slight diversion might be called for, until he was ready to go on. “There’ve been no guarantees regarding what you’ll receive next time. Please refrain from digressing. This deal, as you say, is far from brokered. Now, if you please…”

The ornate desk’s creaking was low and steady. Draco flicked his hair from his face with one swift jerk of his chin. Opened his mouth and breathed. He could feel all sorts of taut muscle beneath him, at the backs of his thighs, in the hands bracing his hips. Flexing steadily in a tense press of near-silence. Within him. He leaned back and felt the subtle and welcome change of angle.

“I’ve a boyfriend, you know.” Draco sighed. Knit his brow.

“A steady one, then?”

“Absolutely. Gods, right there—” He broke off, moved in desperate silence for a moment. Exhaled and slowed again. “Going to have to tell him about this, just so you’re aware.”

“Don’t know if I like that, actually. Not much fun for me.”

“Of course not.” Draco frowned. “It’s not about you.”

“Do you always bottom from the top like this for him?”

“Godric, no. He’s versatile.” Draco leaned over, thrust down, and kissed deeply on a whim. “And so am I.”

He got a leer for his troubles. “I can see that.”

“Harder. You want the contract or not?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll shag you proper. Just want to make it last—”

Hands climbed up his back. Draco sucked his lip into his mouth and tried to keep his balance, but it was gradually being taken from him. He gripped muscular shoulders and leaned closer until he’d gained purchase with his knees again. The wood of the desk was hard and unforgiving beneath them. “You don’t have to keep looking at the door.”

“Why not? You are. Thought you locked it.”

“That’s the beauty of it: you’ll never be sure, will you? Your boss… my secretary… Could be here any second.” He combed his fingers through the hair at his disposal, gripped there, and shut his eyes with a sigh. “There’s something my boyfriend does. I think I’d like you to do it.”

“What’s that?”

“Hands.” Draco pressed forward until there was nowhere left to press, just skin to skin, damp sweat. “Around behind me, lift me a little. Then lean back, pull out… more… yes… oh gods, just there, short and quick… _yes_ —” Draco threw his head back. His legs shook with the effort of holding himself up. “Oh. _Fuck_. Drives me fucking wild.”

He could hear the grin in the words. “Is that a fact?”

Draco smacked lightly with his palm. “ _Don’t_ get distracted.”

“Right.” A pause. “So, this boyfriend of yours. Is he any good?”

“Best lover I’ve ever had.”

“You must like him an awful lot.”

Draco curled forward, sank deeper again. Began to thrust in earnest. He caught the other man’s jaw with his fingertips and looked him straight in the eye. “I’m in love with him,” he managed between gasps.

His companion was quiet for a moment. “Think this kind of thing would hurt him?”

Draco sobered and took his lover’s face in both hands. “I’d never, ever hurt him. You know that.”

“Good,” came the low moan. Hands gripped him fiercely, hips thrust deep, and Draco’s mouth fell open. He let out a helpless little cry, then cut it off trying to get air. He bent, knocked noses, kissed the other man full on the lips. Whimpered out of it and struggled tensely with his own body as it flooded over with something very much like heat. One… more… thrust… and it spilled over, leaving him shuddering and rocking, gyrating, clutching too tightly. Kissing what skin he could find and tasting salty sweat and cologne. His orgasm spun itself out, down into his thighs and up into his shoulders and head and neck, and Draco finally collapsed, just in time to feel his lover break the same barrier. His control was long gone, and he couldn’t care less. He could only rock into it, wrap himself around it.

He disentangled himself as soon as he had his head back and dropped across the desk, scattering papers and quills and loose clothing. He slung an arm around the heaving chest beside him and hugged himself close. “Merlin, I am so thankful you stayed through lunch.”

“Mm… Remind me why we’ve never done this before?”

“You never really warmed up to it, prat,” Draco sighed, slapping the bare thigh under his hand lightly. He rubbed over the spot. “Role-playing is not your kink.”

“Well, I stand corrected. That was one of the hottest things I’ve done in years.”

Draco hummed his agreement. “You are one of the hottest things I’ve done in years.” He rolled nearer, smirking. “I’m afraid I’ve something to confess. I had sex with a client in my office today, Harry. Right across my antique desk.”

Harry grinned lopsidedly, looking spectacularly tired and gorgeous and sweaty there across the top of Draco’s desk with his limbs splayed out and his glasses drooping down the slope of his nose. “Well, shite! Was it any good?”

“Damn good,” Draco murmured, silencing himself with Harry’s mouth. He kissed him languidly for nearly a minute, fitting their bodies more closely as he did. He broke away reluctantly and nudged Harry’s nose with his. “You can tell the eldest Weasley he’s got the bloody contract.”

“Oh, he’ll love that.” Harry squeezed Draco’s nape and sat up. Draco came with him, dragged himself to his knees and shuffled around behind Harry to kiss the width of his shoulders. Afternoon light streamed in from between the lowered blinds and hatched golden stripes across Harry’s thighs. The man made a contented sound. “You due back at your desk instead of on it any time soon?”

“Fuck it,” Draco mumbled, face still half-pressed into Harry’s back. “Work when I bloody well want to.”

“Come here.”

Harry crooked fingers around Draco’s and guided him down off the desk. He grabbed up his fallen trousers and Draco’s shirt, and they managed to get back into them lazily, hands trailing over each other as they dressed. Draco left his tie where it hung over the back of his chair and stumbled over to the door, scruffing a hand through his hair. “Bloody trousers. How the hell did they get inside out?”

Harry shook his head and lowered himself to the carpeted floor in the pool of yellow light beneath the window. He reached up and snagged Draco by the loose ends of his belt as he approached. “Come on, give me my Galleon’s worth, Malfoy.”

“Galleon?” Draco huffed. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.” He sighed as Harry settled down on his back across the square of light, and lowered himself beside him, resting his cheek against Harry’s chest. “Funny thing is, I’ve done this before.”

“What, slept with a client?”

Draco nodded thoughtfully. “Well, that, yeah. Don’t tell me you haven’t.”

Harry shrugged. “No, I have. Met several people because of my job, actually. The perks of traveling.”

“Stands to reason.” Draco hugged Harry tighter. “But no, I meant I’ve slept with a _prospective_ client before. Not the most admirable thing I’ve ever done, but he was very good looking. Hells, he was absolutely ravishing. Brunet, tallish, with a perfect jaw. It just never really extended past the stage of shagging in the office.”

“Did you do it for the contract?”

“Not really.” Draco took a deep breath. He felt Harry stroke his hair. “And yes. Felt like a good idea at the time.”

Harry snorted. “I once was propositioned by the… what do you call them? Patriarchs. By the patriarch of that family in Austria, the Shönburgs.”

Draco jerked his head up. “My god. Please tell me you did not go through with it.”

Harry shook his head. “No, gods, no. I think he was half in his whisky bottle at the time. Probably thinks he shagged me anyway, though I doubt he’s coherent enough to spread any rumours about it now.”

“Gods. My father knew him. I’m amazed that old bastard’s prick hasn’t fallen right off.” Draco sighed and settled again. “Mine was my age, thank you very much. But he was a right arse, too. Just as well it never went any further.”

“I’m glad of that, too” Harry murmured sleepily. Several slow, deep breaths, which Draco watched lazily. “Mm, how long do you think we can lie here?”

Draco looked around halfheartedly for his desk clock, and then shrugged. “Go to sleep, it’s perfectly alright. I’ll get you up when I’m done and we can go get samosas.”

Harry gathered him close and kissed the top of his head. “Sounds good to me.”

~tbc~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this one is plainly self-indulgent... *hides*


	9. Legionis Egeo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Harry's special day.

The first thing he noticed, of course, was that his flat was awfully dark.

Harry smiled faintly, covered in the hallway’s shadows. He loosened the buttons on his coat and stripped it off, then reached into one of the pockets and returned his briefcase to its normal size. He could see the gleam of the case’s leather handles as he set it down on the floor. Yellowy light from further inside, glancing weakly off the walls and down the hallway just far enough to show him that the source of the light was hidden. The sitting room, perhaps. Or the kitchen.

He was betting on a candle.

He nearly took his coat with him beyond the hallway, but stopped with a smirk and dropped it in a pile on the floor just where the weak light was strongest. Inordinately satisfying, that. He was sure to be chewed out for it. Damn it if he wasn’t looking forward to the light sniping.

On the kitchen table, just visible through the archway, sat a single tapered candle, flickering merrily and casting the rest of the kitchen into dancing shadows. Harry kicked off his shoes and made his way over, digging his toes into the whispering carpet. Not just a candle then; there was a note beside it, and a delicate antique bottle made of rose-coloured glass. Harry glanced at the folded note and lifted the bottle.

Empty.

The note was simple. _Tonight, whatever you wish._

Harry lowered himself into the nearest chair, then summoned a glass from the cupboard, and orange juice. He drank the whole thing in one go, and when he looked up, it was to find Draco leaning silently in the far doorway, barefoot and clothed in simple black trousers that hugged the darkness. His shirt looked soft and undefined in the candlelight. Cream, maybe.

Draco smiled. Ghostly. “Happy birthday.”

Harry turned his chair around to face the other man and smiled back. “You’re up late.”

“Waiting for you.” Draco’s grey eyes lingered on his face. His irises reflected the warm flickers of light. “So. Twenty-nine,” he said lazily. “Getting awfully old, aren’t you?”

“May I remind you that you’re the geriatric one in this relationship?”

Draco’s only answer was a catlike grin.

Harry’s smile widened. He reached back casually and lifted the note off the table. The paper was thick and luxuriant, with fragile-looking bordering. “Rather cryptic gift. I suppose this is meant for me then?”

“Mm-hm.”

Harry took up the bottle next. “And this?” He shook it gently in the air and the glass threw sparks of rainbow light over the walls.

Draco shifted his weight and crossed his arms over his chest. If anything, his smile grew even more secretive. “That was for me.”

Harry glanced at the bottle warily, then narrowed his eyes at Draco. “I don’t remember you having all that many kinks involving potions,” he ventured.

Draco shrugged, an elegant lift of one shoulder. “Never underestimate the form a kink can take. That,” he said, pointing one slender finger at the little bottle, “is the former abode of Legionis Egeo. One guess as to where it is now.”

Harry gazed at Draco for several long seconds. “I’m fairly intrigued about what that means for me,” he answered at last. 

Draco stepped away from the door. His teeth flashed brightly in the candlelight. “It means, Harry, that tonight, your every desire takes shape. Tonight, you can have anything." He paused. " _Be_ with any _one_.”

Harry could not look away from Draco’s hooded stare. The clock ticked gently in the background, and the light flickered over the other man's body, shaping some of it in gold, letting the rest drift easily into shadow.

“You’ve been scheming again,” Harry stated, feeling slightly… warmer than he had a second ago.

Draco’s eyebrow quirked provocatively. “Oh, for several months, which is, incidentally, how long it takes to acquire such a rare little gem as Legionis. What would you like tonight, Harry? And I do mean all night.”

Draco’s wand appeared in his hand, delicately lifted from somewhere unseen. One sinuous wave and the cream shirt melted away in a wisp, leaving muscles defined by the wavering light and pale skin. Draco’s trousers hung low enough on his hips to promise a good deal more skin to come. Harry found himself staring at the well-known hollows and curves. He pulled his eyes away wistfully. “Surprise me.”

Draco’s grin went outright devilish. He sauntered forward, swaying as he came, then lifted both arms gracefully to take in the entire room. “Fancy auburn tonight, Harry?”

And Draco’s hair darkened, like bronze flowing over silver, slipping, sliding, until the colour was of autumn leaves, thick and perfect. “Dark eyes, perhaps.” And the grey swirled into the warm, rich brown of liquid chocolate. “A little more of a worldly tone…?” A tiny flick of Draco’s wand, and his skin smoothed into the amber-gold of summer, evenly over each muscle. 

Harry leaned slowly back in his chair.

Draco smirked at him. “Maybe something to hold onto instead.” His wand alighted just at his temple, and the auburn hair lengthened into a gentle wave over his shoulders. Another flick of his wand, and blue eyes pierced perfectly from a face that… was so different and yet still held the Cheshire grin Harry knew so very well. “I can be that bloke in the pub two nights ago—” and his skin lightened again into olive, his hair slipping into loose black curls, “—or that ravishing blond willow who offered you that threesome last month—” and there he was, eerily graceful with innocent eyes, “—or perhaps the redhead who concluded his licensing contract in my office this evening.” 

Harry swallowed unexpectedly at the solid form, the hint of freckles. The added years and the crafty light in deep green eyes.

“I could be a girl, if you fancied it.” Draco moved closer, close enough to close his hands over the armrests of Harry’s chair. He leaned in, inches away. “I could even be you, Harry, if you’re feeling particularly vicarious this evening.” 

Draco’s voice, coming from another’s handsome face. Draco’s knowledge behind the lingering touch of another’s fingers over his throat, and drifting tantalisingly nearer to his groin. Harry drew a deep, shaky breath and let it out.

“Anything I want?” he managed.

Draco’s eyes softened, startlingly familiar beyond colour and shape. “Absolutely anything, Harry. For as long as you desire.”

Harry stood slowly, and Draco eased back to let him up. His eyes tracked to Harry’s and held. The faint smirk was detectable, shaping firm jaw and delectably sharp lips. Harry smirked back. He settled a hand on Draco’s left arm and turned to circle him. Draco stood straight, unabashed, shoulders lifting and falling slightly with each inhalation.

“Well.” Harry danced fingers over Draco’s bare chest and let his hand fall. “Since it’s my birthday…” He halted and studied the curve of Draco’s new profile, the sensuous, lengthy arc of his back. “It will have to be the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.”

Draco cocked his head. “Precisely, Potter. Just say the words.”

Harry let his eyes linger over Draco’s wider shoulders. He slid one hand up his left arm again. Leaned in. “Give him a slender build, like yours,” he whispered. 

With a twitch of his lips, Draco complied. "Well. Sounds mightily attractive already."

"Oh, he is." Harry continued on his way around, very slowly, letting himself study the body in front of him. He ghosted a hand over the expensive fabric of Draco’s trousers, just across his left thigh. “Short hair. Blond.”

Wheat-blond, kissed by the sun. Harry waited a beat. “Lighter,” he murmured.

Silver flecked. Draco stared straight ahead. It was hard to tell from that angle, but Harry thought the amused smile was still there. He circled around back and slid a hand over Draco’s waist, up over smooth skin to glide across his chest. “Grey eyes.”

Draco swallowed, a weighted sound. It rippled his throat. His breathing deepened.

“Pale skin,” Harry whispered, ghosting his lips over the curve of Draco’s nape. Draco’s breathing became audible. Less controlled. One hand twitched, almost lifting. Almost covering his.

Harry slipped his other arm around Draco’s chest and embraced his warmth, pressing up against his back. He kissed the shoulder before him, sucking softly on bare, unblemished skin. He traced one finger gently across Draco’s torso, a straight, thin line from shoulder to ribs. “And one faint scar,” he said, subdued.

Draco’s hand closed over his, fingers clenching unsteadily. “Harry,” he breathed. His head dropped forward, and Harry eased him closer, smoothing down over his stomach with one hand and inching gently beneath the waistline of Draco’s trousers until he felt the cloaking heat of hidden skin and the silken whorl of hair trailing down. Draco shuddered once, the tiniest tremor. His hand followed over Harry’s until his palm lay against Harry’s wrist.

Harry smiled into Draco’s shoulder. He turned him with a slight nudge, until he met darkened grey eyes. “Happy birthday to me,” he said, very softly.

Draco’s gaze moved over his face, open and exposed. He swallowed again, and Harry longed to kiss his throat, to follow the movement with his mouth until he remembered it through and through all over again. Full lips parted, lips he envisioned every day at work during the hours he couldn’t see them for himself. “And how long… How long would you like this?”

Harry touched his nose to Draco’s. Breathed out gently and brushed his lips in a sensitive, requesting kiss. “For as long as you’re willing.”

~tbc~


	10. The Mishap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's weekend is looking to be just _perfect_. Really.

“Fuck, fuck, shite and shit, bloody buggering shite. Merlin’s blasted _tit_.” Harry flung his left shoe back into the closet and grabbed for his dingier pair. He lurched upright and headed for the desk and its pile of mismatched socks.

In the bed, Draco twisted onto his belly beneath the sheets. He gave a soft huff and opened one bleary eye. “Potter, where’s the sodding apocalypse?”

“Sorry,” Harry muttered. He tossed three pairs of clean, newly reunited socks at his bag where it sat by the door. “Sorry. I am so late.”

Draco mumbled dismissively. He plumped the pillow beneath his face with a sluggish fist. “Get back into bed and I’ll blow you.”

“Tempting.” Harry smiled and knelt over his bag, shoving things into it. “I’ll have to pass. Miss my Portkey if I don’t.”

“I can be awfully quick, you know that,” Draco wheedled. Harry fastened his bag shut and glanced up, smirking.

“This for me or for you?”

“Hardly matters, does it?” Draco flopped onto his back. His hand came up to rub his face. “Come on, Harry. For old time’s sake.”

“Cheers, and no.” Harry got up and crossed the room, pecking Draco lightly on the head, then looked around for his coat. “Where in Godric’s almighty name— There. Look, hold it over for me? I’ll see you tomorrow night in Hydra’s Dale and you can take all the old time’s sake you want.”

Draco’s hand froze over his face and his body actually stiffened. He sat up with a groan. “Fuck. Harry, I’m sorry, I can’t anymore.”

Harry stared at him, one hand poised over his bag holding a wadded shirt, and Draco shook his head, shutting his eyes. “A big contract’s being drafted. They switched dates on me and of course that makes it _my_ emergency now…” He trailed off momentarily. “I thought I’d told you.”

Harry frowned. He felt pain in his jaw and unclenched it. “Oh.” Nodded. “Fine then. Next time you feel like letting me know a little earlier, you do that.”

Draco’s brows came down. His eyes tracked Harry’s stilted movements. “I’m so _sorry_ for the inconvenience, Potter. Fuck’s sake. Not like I schemed for this to happen.”

“And it didn’t occur to you to let me know last night?” Harry jerked the main zipper shut. “Or did they just Floo you this morning about everything while I was still passed out?”

Draco’s jaw went visibly tighter. “You know, the only one at fault for the fact that you’re running late is _you_ , so you can stop taking it out on me.”

“Your timing is for shite, Draco,” Harry snapped, yanking the bag’s side pocket open and throwing a knit cap inside. 

Draco’s lip curled distastefully. “Pardon me if I don’t manage to remember everything, Potter. My life is just as complicated as yours. We can’t all be as on top of things as you.”

Harry raised his head slowly and glared straight at the man still sitting in his bed. “Then I won’t complicate your life any further this weekend. I’m sure I can fill the new gaps in my schedule easily enough.”

“You are making too big an issue out of this.” There was a level of warning in Draco’s voice that Harry hadn’t heard in some time. But damn it if it didn’t manage to dig right under his nerves like it always had.

“You know,” he shot back, snapping buckles and tugging his bag’s shoulder strap loose, “a little consideration for the plans of others wouldn’t be a bad habit to pick up, Draco.”

Draco threw up his hands, flicking hair from his face with a jerk of his chin. “Forgive me my indomitable nighttime distractions, oh paragon of perfection. Which I might add were distractions mostly consisting of your glorious body. Did I destroy your entire trip with my callous thoughtlessness? Oh, wait, no. _You’re still leaving._ "

“Yes, I am, alone, and thanks.” Harry stood and yanked his bag over one shoulder. He flicked one hand out and the blinds rolled up with a slick hiss and folded themselves to the top of the windows. Sunlight flooded into the room. Draco winced.

“You just had to make it personal,” he growled.

Harry glowered, stalking up to the bed. He met Draco’s stare and his ire rose when Draco glared back coolly. “How long have you known?”

Draco continued to scowl at him for another second, and then looked away. “Two days ago.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “Uh-huh.” He turned and headed for the door. Draco sighed exasperatedly behind him.

“So simple for you, is it? Did it ever occur to you that I might have wanted to avoid a row before you left? You’ve been on your last thread for days. It’s a little hard to talk to you when your mood keeps getting steadily worse!”

Harry whirled around, hands out. “And you thought this option would be better?”

Draco said nothing.

Harry took a deep breath and was suddenly certain he didn’t want to get into this. “I have to go.”

He left the room with swift strides, and heard Draco grumble and flump back down on the bed as he went down the hall.

* * *

“Oy, Harry, good morning!” 

It took Harry a little longer than usual to summon a smile for Andy. Not a difficult thing to do on a regular basis, but today his face just didn’t want to put up with the work it took. “Andy. Alright?”

His co-worker gave him a lopsided smile in return anyway. He was in a dark tank shirt and tan trousers, his hair banded away from his face with a dingy bit of ripped robe. “Been here about two hours. They’ve only just managed to open up the gardens. The bloke who owns the manor doesn’t seem to remember hiring us.”

Harry grimaced and tossed his coat just a little too forcefully onto a hedge marked safe with blue winking sparkles. “What does he want, a memo? He’s the one who demanded this weekend.”

“Don’t I know it,” Andy laughed. “I’d planned for a nice lunch later. Looks like its going to be dinner.”

It sounded like there could be a date in there somewhere, but Harry couldn’t be arsed enough to ponder over it. “Hm,” was all he said. He walked the length of the pre-cleared area, eyeing a young man who was currently inspecting a shrub shaped like a Flox-Fairy. “That fairy’s hexed, does he know that?”

Andy peered at the shrub in question and shrugged. “Yeah, he’s Melinda’s intern. He did the entire east wall. He’ll be fine.”

Sure enough, the boy— couldn’t have been much past his teens— gave the shrub a quick two flicks with his wand, followed by a wide arcing sweep, and the hex shuddered out of existence. Harry looked away. “Melinda brought an intern along,” he stated.

“Yeah…” For the first time, a frown coloured Andy’s voice. He approached Harry, brushing dirt from his own shirt with his fingertips. “I know it’s a big job. But he’s promising. He’ll be alright, Harry.”

Harry shrugged it off and turned away from the boy. He undid the buttons of his overshirt and then decisively zapped the thing into miniscule size and shoved it in his trouser pocket. His watch read half-eight. “Well, come on, then. This garden’s crawling with minor hexes and disillusionment charms.”

Andy went to work without another word, and aside from the occasional order and direction to the other cursebreakers meandering about the large gardens, Harry remained relatively quiet as well. It was a solid three hours before he looked at his watch again. He’d pulled the group together over a particularly complicated set of hexes, all twisted up like a giant knot of invisible magic, and Melinda was currently extricating the outermost one with a painstaking series of wand taps. There was nothing to do but sit around staring at something he could not help with. Harry turned with a sigh and shaded his eyes, studying the outer regions of the manor’s acreage. Back at the ornate doors of the manor house itself, a stately, hunchbacked older wizard in far too much finery was snarling at one of Harry’s cursebreakers and gesturing furiously with a gnarled hand.

Andy came up beside him. “Water?”

Harry took the canteen and drank a long draught from it. “Cheers.”

Andy took it back and had a drink himself. He watched the argument over at the door with narrowed eyes. “Going to be a long weekend.”

Harry huffed out a breath and scruffed his hands through his hair, trying to rid himself of the lingering heat. “He’ll stay in the house for three straight days if he gives Marcus much more flak. I’ll lock him in his loo myself.”

He could feel Andy’s eyes on him. “You alright, Harry?”

Harry shrugged. “Fine. So. You’ll definitely make your dinner tonight. I’ve a mind to let the arse stew in his minefield of a garden for another night before I do any of the serious curses out there.” He gestured at the deceptively calm green areas beyond the well-trimmed garden.

It felt like Andy was hesitating, but when he finally laughed, it was the same laugh he always gave. “That’s a relief. I’ve someone coming to visit. Stroke of luck it was this weekend. He’s just over in the next town.”

Harry looked sidelong at his friend. “This someone special, then?”

“I…” Andy blushed. He looked down and fiddled with his canteen cap, drinking more water. Harry watched him swallow and wipe his mouth. “Well, he’s a friend. Or rather… more than a friend. But it’s nothing serious.”

“Yeah.”

Andy peered at him. “Thought we’d try the café in Hydra’s Dale. You know the one, with all those pixies in the rafters. You… You want to join us?”

“No,” Harry said shortly. “I don’t think so. But thanks.”

“Right.” Another swig of water. Andy looked away over the gardens. “You’ll be with… Draco, is it? I’m sure you’ve got something planned.”

There was something a touch forced in Andy’s tone. Harry cast another glance his way. “He’s not coming.”

“Oh.” Andy shifted his weight. Wiped his brow. “Well… you’re welcome to join us, then. Chris wouldn’t mind. I’m sure of that.”

“You know, I think I’ll just hit a pub or two.” Harry looked at Melinda and found her halfway through the third hex. “Think I’ll get good and pissed tonight.”

Andy smirked a little. “I can… You know, I can Floo Chris. Tell him I can’t make it, if you’d like company.”

“Andy. No. Have fun.” Harry cupped a hand around his mouth, shouting toward the house. “Marcus! Problem?”

The other man shook his head wearily and continued to speak to the owner of the manor. Frustration spiked in Harry’s chest, quick and sudden, and he strode away from Andy, heading straight for the disgruntled homeowner and fully intending to verbally slam him into the dirt. 

It really was too bad Draco wouldn’t be standing right behind the old man.

* * *

The pub was full of warmth and dry space at the bar, the smell of good food, and plenty of clean tumblers to quench Harry’s normally conservative taste for beer.

He wasn’t feeling incredibly conservative tonight, however.

“So what you’re saying is, you’ve had a lousy weekend.” His self-appointed companion was muscular, lean, with a friendly face and gold-streaked hair that fell just to his jaw, at least the hair that wasn’t carelessly swept over the top of his head. He had a Welsh accent. 

“Summary accepted,” Harry answered. “Could turn into a lousy week. Who knows.”

“Ah, but you’re only here for the next couple of days.” The man smirked at him and signalled for a pint of his own. “Task accomplished, work finished. He wasn’t able to come this time, that’s all.”

“Maybe if I’d known when he first knew. But I didn’t know until this morning. And what does he do about it, do you think?” Harry swirled his pint, swigged down a whole quarter of it, and stared blearily at the surface of the bar. “He wakes up and tells me… that he’s not coming. No warning, not even like he’d thought of telling me.” 

He knew he was being a bit harsh, but it hurt, for fuck’s sake. He’d had to disappoint Draco several times in the past few months, but never right at the deadline like that.

“But,” he went on, hearing his own voice lose its fervor and drop into the dregs of resignation, “it’s his job. It was before, and it is now, and my eyes have been open for nearly a decade on that subject.”

“Merlin,” the man broke in. “How long were you two together anyway?”

“Two years.” Another swallow of beer. “And then five years of walking out of each other’s bedrooms and into our semblances of lives. I’ve no one to blame but myself. I’m not about to ask him to quit his career. We’re not children anymore.”

“The relative simplicity would be nice, though.”

“I really can’t stand it sometimes, you know?” Harry shook his head and leaned on his elbow. Gods, he had a headache. Shouldn’t be drinking. “Not as though I didn’t know what was coming. Hells, we knew going into it. We _went_ back into it despite what was coming.”

The tall blond nodded sympathetically. “It doesn’t make it any less difficult.”

“Understatement. There are some weeks when I…” Harry grimaced. _When I hardly ever see him._ “I hate the travel, for both of us. I hated it then, and I hate it now. Fucking wears me out.”

“So is it worth it?” 

Harry shrugged. “Not the question. The alternative to having him’s much, much worse.”

The man nodded thoughtfully and took a long swallow of his beer. His throat rippled as he drank. “I was with a bloke like you, once,” he said, finally setting the glass down half-empty. “Always out of town. Absolutely gorgeous, too.”

“And how did that end?” Harry asked.

The man shrugged and gave him a smile. “We’d both moved on before we realised.”

Harry nodded and turned back to his drink, then signalled for a third when he saw the state of his pint. “You know I don’t even like this stuff?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not at all.”

“So.” The man raised his hand for another pint as well. “This lover of yours isn’t exactly the sacrificial type? Oh, let me buy you that one. Bartender, I’m paying.”

“No, he’s not, I’ll pay for it, and his. Forcing you to put up with me anyway. And actually, my lover _is_ rather sacrificial when he wants to be. Just not about his career. But then, I knew that going in.”

“Good at what he does?”

Harry grimaced at his new drink. “Too good.”

“Promising future?”

“Oh, he’s already wallowing in the promise.”

“Ah. Rich, then.”

Harry shrugged again. “Comes with the family. They’ve always been fairly good at getting by.”

“Well. He’s not going to leave his career, I can tell you that right now. They never do. And you’re not either, in case you aren’t yet aware.”

“Why, thank you for that insight.”

The man’s grin answered Harry’s. “Which brings you right back to where you were when you came in. Glad I could help so much.”

“It just feels good to blow off some steam.” Harry raised his glass to his lips, relishing the tangy smell of the fresh pint. “I’d damn well forgotten how good it feels.”

“Well, I think I’d definitely like to help you blow off more. Drinking’s not nearly as cathartic. I’ve a room with a large bed, and more than enough energy to make you forget for a while.”

Harry nearly spit out his drink. He stared at the man, feeling his face twist. “What the… I _love_ my boyfriend. He can be an arse, but you think I'm going to ruin it by shagging _you?_ ”

The man frowned at him, leaning back. “Seems like you’re a bit of an arse as well.”

Harry stood up, tossing down enough money for his drinks, but not enough for the man’s third pint. He waved the Galleon in front of his companion’s eyes. “That’s why we’re so good together. Keep your bloody offer.” 

And left the bar, to the sound of the bartender’s snickering.

* * *

For the third time, Harry turned over in his sleep, reached an arm out, and found the bed devoid of Draco.

Rain slithered down the mullioned glass of his single window, the faint bluish light of midnight making the sheets and his arm look like they were under water. Harry breathed once, twice, staring at the cool, empty place beside him. Then he pushed himself up and sat.

“Damn,” he hissed. The rain trickled.

Wasn’t used to this. The bed was too cold and too still. It didn’t creak right; hells, it creaked too much. Harry shoved the blankets off his legs and got up.

How long had it taken them to get used to two in a bed? There was really no mystery to shagging that way, diagonal across a mattress and tangled up so tightly in Draco that they couldn’t stop moving and he couldn’t imagine sleep or speech or stopping. They’d shagged together in beds for months before one or the other finally forgot to get up and leave when it was over.

But sleeping beside Draco, beside another person at all? Much more intrusive. And after a few weeks, absolutely indispensable. Draco hadn’t slept well with Harry in his bed again at first: Draco moved, Draco twisted and took up space. Eventually, after nearly seven nights, Draco had draped himself over and around Harry, and it was that night that he’d finally put Harry to sleep with his breathing.

On the contrary, it had taken Harry a mere two nights during their second attempt at a relationship to remember the sigh of Draco’s breathing and the scent of him, the twitch and touch of his slumbering body. To grow completely attached to it all over again.

Harry leaned against the windowsill and studied the rain whispering down over sloping hills below. For a brief moment, he thought about Apparating.

“You sorry arse,” he muttered to himself. His voice was swallowed up in the night.

He hadn’t expected Draco to throw his meetings or his contracts out the window. Harry could whinge about it as much as he liked; it was still the truth. He knew where they stood on the subject of their respective jobs. Even if he’d forgotten other things.

Harry turned his back to the window and sat on the ledge, pressing his shoulders against the cool glass. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be without a bedmate. It was too familiar, too much like that first chilly month so many years ago, when he’d left Draco’s home and had to make use of a bed that was only his again. Nothing new, when he really faced the facts; two years, then months of being apart more than they were together, and finally… the end. And a cold, vast bed to himself. He’d thought it the newness of the mattress for a long, long time, instead of what it really was.

Harry shut his eyes, trying to let the patter of drops lull some weariness into him. It was elusive; the bed was still emptier than he liked, and it was a far cry from Draco’s bed anyway.

He’d always been able to sleep in Draco’s bed. Even during the five-year break when he’d known that he wasn’t the only one who shared that bed. Even when perhaps only a night before, someone else had lain there warming the sheets. With Draco, he could always rest.

And now, Harry knew better than ever that the bed itself had nothing to do with it. 

The rain fell behind him, tracing patterns over the vacant white sheets.

* * *

Harry wiped sweat from his eyes and resisted the urge to fling his wand into the dirt. “No— No, you’ll have to try it from over there. That barrier’s resisting, and it’s inconsequential anyway. Melinda, to the right.”

Melinda Smythe stepped dutifully to her right and hunkered down. Harry saw Andy sigh and shake his head.

The bloody heat was incredible. Harry wiped his forehead yet again. “Andy, she’s got to have a different countercurse or we’ll be here well into the night—”

A white flash erupted suddenly from the ground to Harry’s left, exploding outward with a horrendous crack. Harry felt a tingling wall of heat batter right into him. His feet bucked off the ground, and his shoulders hit the earth hard, snapping his head back. He blinked upward, dazed, seeing blue sky dotted with hazy little spots. Something within him remembered to breathe and he gasped, filling his lungs, heaving it back out. In. Out.

“Harry!” Someone skidded to his knees beside him. Harry saw Andy’s wide brown eyes staring down, and felt hands on his face. “Harry?”

“Yes,” was all he could say, dully.

“No, don’t move. Don’t—” Andy’s voice stopped, replaced by harsh breathing. Hands patted him down quickly, pressing against new aches. Harry winced and rolled his head to the side. Melinda lay there in the dirt ten feet away, her eyes shut, one arm flung up and out. Her fine black hair sifted around her face.

Andy began to shout, but there were already people running. The pounding of their feet around him vibrated into Harry’s body. Someone crouched down beside Melinda, blocking her from view.

“Harry? Harry Potter.”

Harry tried to curse but it came out garbled. “I _know_ my bloody name,” he grunted.

“Think you can get up?”

He might have nodded— or something— because a stabilising spell was cast. Andy’s hands slipped under his shoulders and braced him. Hard.

“Ow,” Harry hissed, shaking his head. Andy relaxed his grip and let him sink back to the earth.

To Harry’s right, the frenzy was becoming more pronounced. He stared dazedly at the muddle of flurrying people until his eyes went dry and he had to blink.

Finally, a Healer knelt next to Harry, and Andy drew his hands away from where they’d been resting on his shoulders. The Healer bent over and took Harry’s hand in a tight grip. Her frizzy hair was coming out of its severe bun. The sun behind her set the strands glowing. “Mr Potter? I’m going to Apparate you side-along to St Mungo’s. Have you been Apparated by Healers before?”

“No.” His voice cracked.

She nodded. “It’ll be a little less clean because we won’t be turning.”

Harry nodded back. The Healer raised her head to Andy. “You’ll need to step back.”

Andy rose and moved out of sight. Harry turned his head again. People still surrounded Melinda on the ground. He could only see her legs. Then they shimmered slightly and Harry felt a strange, relentless pull in his midsection. He blinked again and the world faded, the tug growing stronger and stronger, until a final, familiar jerk bore them away.

* * *

“So that’s it, then?” Harry asked. The Healer looked him over once more with appraising eyes, and nodded. 

“I see no reason why not. You were knocked off your feet rather hard, but it was nothing we couldn’t fix right up.” She nodded satisfactorily. Harry started to push up on his elbows, and she waved her wand over his face. A soft yellow haze permeated the air briefly before vanishing. “That, however, is a reason to take it slowly, Mr Potter. Remember, you did give your upper back a good knock. Try not to jump about for the next day. That spell needs to run blue before you’re fully recovered.”

Harry sighed and slumped back down onto the bed. The Healer quirked an eyebrow at him. “Let us know when you’re ready to leave. We’ll have the paperwork ready for you out in the lobby.” She nodded to Andy where he stood by the door, and left the room.

Andy smiled at him finally and approached the bed. “Feeling alright?”

“I am.” Harry swallowed and eased himself up to sit against his mound of pillows. “Thanks for staying.”

His friend shook his head. “It’s nothing, mate. You would have done the same.”

Harry smiled. Andy smiled back. And just like that, the ease drained out of the room. Harry didn’t really know exactly when it vanished altogether; just… suddenly he could see the field again, and Melinda on her back, and the absolute lack of foreknowledge just before the blast went off.

“I shouldn’t have—” He pursed his lips and looked at the ceiling. “If I’d been paying more attention to Melinda and not to my own fucking issues—”

“Harry, no.” Andy’s hand found his and covered it, large and warm. “You did everything right. I wouldn’t have let any of them near the place otherwise.”

Harry shook his head wordlessly. He heard Andy breathing beside him for several helpless seconds.

“Harry, it was a twelfth-century paralysing curse. Probably for robbers. It was set to go off if anything disturbed the outer stones. Timed or… delayed. Bill’s still looking into it.” He squeezed Harry’s hand. “It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d done anything differently. We’re just lucky more people weren’t hurt.”

He was right, of course he was right. Andy was always right. Harry grimaced and stared at their hands, then slowly drew his away with a weary half-smile. But the lack of conversation only gave him time to think, and the scene returned to him immediately.

A white flash. A bang. The cerulean sky over his head and the feeling of nothing, no body, no brain, and then… Andy’s hands on his, Andy bending over him. 

Gods. He wanted Draco so badly. His throat tried to close on him, and he turned away to look at the sunny summer day going on outside his window, completely oblivious to him and his quaking, shivering bones. One curse was enough to throw him completely off his feet in every way. He couldn’t stop his fingers from shaking.

“I’ll just go and get your things, Harry,” Andy offered in a gentle voice. “I’m sure you’d like to get out of those hospital robes.”

Harry could do little more than nod. It felt wrong, as if he weren’t quite inside his own head. Andy headed for the door.

“Andy?”

“Yeah.” The man turned back expectantly. Harry studied his face and then sighed, not entirely liking the extra warmth that still lingered there.

“I need to ask you a favour.” He rubbed his forehead. “I need you to Floo Draco Malfoy at Montmorice Potions and tell him what’s happened.”

Andy nodded. He gave Harry another small smile. “Sure.”

Harry sighed again and watched as Andy left, closing the door softly behind him. Only then did he pull himself up, levering against the mattress and swinging his legs over the edge. He shut his eyes, gave his head a shake, and got up.

* * *

He was standing at the window, fully dressed and looking out over the bustle and hum of Muggle traffic when the door opened again. Harry looked over his shoulder and found Draco in the doorway. He was dressed in the crisp black robes he wore to work, the top collar opened around his throat. His sleeves were rolled up, his cloak folded over one bare forearm. Draco took a visible breath and stepped fully into the room, shutting the door.

“Hey,” Harry said softly.

Draco nodded. He walked across the room, setting his cloak down carefully over the back of a chair. His eyes never quite left Harry, but skirted up and down his body. He came up behind and stopped. “I was half afraid they’d got it wrong and you wouldn’t be up.”

Harry smiled weakly. “No, I’m fine. Just a sore back.”

Draco _hmm_ ed. Harry could feel him standing behind as if they were already touching. And then they were: the palm of Draco’s hand came to rest on the nape of his neck. Harry felt the touch of all five fingers. He turned his head slightly. “What happened to your contract?”

Draco sniffed. “Told them to go fuck themselves. Basically.”

Harry smirked.

“What went wrong?” Draco murmured.

“Paralysing curse.” Harry shrugged. “Didn’t see it coming. And Smythe’s in hospital now.”

Draco didn’t answer, but the question seemed obvious to Harry. Maybe it was only his guilt whispering. “She’ll be comatose for at least a week. It could have been a lot worse,” he relented finally. His shoulders felt so heavy.

“Yes,” Draco stated. His voice was stilted. “It could have.”

Harry opened his mouth, unsure which apology he meant to make first, _needing_ to make both more badly than he’d ever expected. But arms came around him suddenly, sliding up and tightening firmly. Harry looked down and found Draco’s hands spread over his chest. Draco’s body came up all along his back, heat and something so inherently familiar that Harry had to swallow again. Draco kissed the nape of his neck and then did not move, his lips resting against Harry’s skin.

Harry shut his eyes and turned his head until he felt Draco’s breath over his throat. He gripped one of his lover’s hands, entwining their fingers.

“Come home,” Draco pleaded softly. Harry nodded.

“Going to take care of me?” he teased, trying for a touch of humour.

But Draco only nodded. Squeezed him closer and rested his chin on Harry’s shoulder.

~tbc~


	11. Draco Malfoy and the Extremely Distasteful Contract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco doesn't get paid enough for this, he really doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: ex-boyfriends ahoy.

_Draco_

Draco had already decided that professionalism had no business mixing itself with personal issues. Still, when the door to his office swung open at last, it was very difficult to keep the distaste off his face, despite his most dedicated resolutions.

He swivelled in his chair and smiled blandly at his ten o’clock consultation. “And welcome back. Found the office again, I see.”

Tristan Fitzmartin grinned widely across the office. Well, _he_ still looked trim. Draco eyed the snugly fitted suit robes. Silk, definitely. Nothing else clung to hips and torso quite like that. Draco gestured at the decidedly inferior chair on the other side of his desk, and his lanky visitor dropped into it.

“You’ve spruced up the office,” Tristan said, much too calmly for Draco’s liking. Draco irritably pushed away the files he’d been working on and straightened in his chair.

“Yes, things do have a habit of changing as time goes by.” He folded his hands over his desk. “I assume your firm has accepted the contract offer then, if your presence here means anything.”

“And you’re still acidic to a fault, aren’t you?” Tristan’s smile was very wide now.

“Oh, there are no _faults_ here. Now, have you come for business or are you merely attempting to ‘shoot the breeze,’ as the Muggles say?”

“Why, hello, Fitzmartin, how good it is to see you again,” Tristan mocked.

“If it were good, I would have said so,” Draco said tightly. He nudged a desk drawer shut with his knee, and the resulting bang was nicely jarring. “Alas. I am a busy person, Tristan, so perhaps you’d like to regale me with negotiation terms so we may end our respective work days a little bit earlier.”

The other man’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing for months but an accusatory letter, and then insults on the eve of a new partnership. Perhaps I should take my business elsewhere.”

“Nothing would make me happier,” Draco snapped, and immediately realised it had been the wrong thing to say; Tristan’s gorgeous eyes widened.

“Oh, Draco. Caught between your better halves. Some days I’m extremely glad you take your work so seriously.” There was more mocking in it, references to a good many things that Draco didn’t want to dig up all at once, or at all. Heat sparked deep in his belly and lanced outward, digging angrily into the rest of his body.

“Get on with it, Tristan,” he growled. “As you say, I’m a dedicated employee. I have real work to do.”

“I’m so thrilled I thought to patronise your little establishment again,” Tristan returned. “Always a joy to renew old acquaintances.”

“There’s nothing little about this ‘establishment.’ You’re running out of time.” _And patience._ But it wouldn’t do any good to remind Tristan of that. The man knew it well enough on his own. It was so infuriating that he was the intelligent sort.

“Ah, the old Draco would have kicked me out already. Or done something else equally… exciting. But you merely insist upon sitting there.” Tristan was actually bothering to hide his smirk. Something in the back of Draco’s mind detected extra malice somewhere, but he couldn’t be arsed to figure out details. That was what instinct was all about, and Draco had long ago learned that instinct was paramount.

“The old Draco,” he stated in a flat voice.

Tristan’s lip curled up. “You’ve gone domestic.”

“Oh?”

The other man nodded. “So I hear. But I could smell it all over your letter. And now, it’s obvious enough. Where’s your spark gone?”

“I heard you were coming back, so I drowned it.” Draco pulled out a sheaf of ornately bordered parchment, turned it and placed it in front of his counterpart, then plucked up a quill and handed it over. He avoided the reaching fingers and sat back. “You’ll find copies in your office this afternoon. Sign there, at the bottom. We’re still old fashioned that way.”

Tristan lifted the parchment between elegant fingers. Draco watched as he went through paragraph after paragraph, dark eyes roving back and forth almost lazily. Bugger him, he was still good at his job. Draco reached for his cooling tea, despising the taste already and gazing at the windows as he drank.

Finally, Tristan set all but the last page aside. “Everything in perfect, pristine order, as usual. Bravo, Draco. I’d feared you’d lost your touch.”

“And yet, you are not signing,” Draco leaned over and tapped the line at the bottom twice with his forefinger. “Just there.”

“Hmm,” Tristan murmured. “Yes, there is that.” His fingers snuck quickly after Draco’s, covering them before Draco could snatch them away and pressing them down onto the desktop. Draco immediately retracted his hand, grimacing. He pulled a blank sheet of parchment toward himself and began jotting down minutes of the meeting in brisk, even notes. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tristan sit up straighter, a calculated motion, and adjust the perfect fold of his collar over bared throat. His fingertips continued to stroke the fabric. “Don’t you have any other incentives for me?”

Draco glared stonily over his notes. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“Ah, yes,” Tristan sighed. “Wedded bliss.”

“You can stop fishing now.”

The laugh was familiar and deep; it still caused the slightest twitch in Draco’s belly. “As it stands, I don’t have to fish. I don’t blame you, really. The Wizarding Saviour isn’t at all embarrassing. I only find it tragic that you’ve cloistered yourself up as a result.”

“Spending your nights hoping I’d let you shag me across my desk a few more times, Tristan?” Draco shot back. “Up against the wall again, perhaps? I’m not sorry to disappoint you. You weren’t _that_ good.”

“Draco,” Tristan answered, shaking his head, “you just wanted to close your deals a little more fervently back then. That’s all.”

Draco’d about had enough. It wasn’t too early to decide that, he was sure of it. He got up from his chair and walked away from the desk, until he could fully look out the window instead of at the current bane of his professional existence. “Pity not all of us care so much about our careers. The Tristan Fitzmartin with whom I was acquainted would have already signed the contract and insured his company’s future success by now.”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed again. “My gods. You’ve changed your spots, that’s for certain. Thinking to impress him?”

“You wouldn’t have the slightest idea what impresses him. Or me, for that matter. Both of which are truths for which I am most grateful.”

“I’ve already met him, actually.”

Draco turned slowly, smoothing his shirt with one precise stroke of his palm. Tristan was eyeing him.

“He’s quite good-looking in person. Such a stellar laugh.”

“Get it off your chest, Tristan,” Draco growled.

“Wouldn’t he love to find out about your extracurricular activities with fellow entrepreneurs?”

“He knows, Tristan.” Draco smiled condescendingly at the look on the other’s face. And then leaned forward. “What did you think this was, some shite Muggle soap? I do communicate with my partner. I find it works wonders.”

Tristan’s smile bent alarmingly. “Do you fancy yourself in some sort of protracted relationship, Malfoy? You’re not the type at all, and you bloody well know it.”

“You’d be surprised how little effort it takes,” Draco returned icily. “Although _you_ would require a lot more work.”

“Why I’m not part of a happy couple,” was the lofty response.

He wasn’t going to rise to this. He wasn’t. Draco turned away. A little part of him felt awfully naked around Tristan; he made the decision to retrieve his coat, to cover himself, and it was a relief to feel the well-known fabric under his fingers again. He swung it deftly about his shoulders and busied himself with adjusting the sleeves. 

It certainly didn’t help that he could remember being literally naked with the man. Quite intimately.

“Someday you’ll regret that,” he muttered, not caring if it sounded sentimental.

“I think I’m more likely to regret the fact of _others_ entering into protracted relationships around me.” Tristan’s tone was careless, and yet it vibrated with some undercurrent. Draco frowned at the window, listening to the creak of his visitor’s chair, knowing Tristan had just crossed his legs. Gods. He could still tell what the other man was doing just by the sound of it.

It irked him more than anything had in a long time; this man had been nothing but a salve, a balm for the hole that was Harry, while Harry was off freely shagging other blokes— and Draco occasionally, of course, but there was always that empty space just inside his chest, filled with rocks or some similar weight. He’d refused to unlock it for the others, no matter how idiotic such moping was. Tristan Fitzmartin had filled the hole, what little of it was available at least, and filled Draco time and again, whenever a contract came up that needed special nudging one way or the other. They’d hardly needed the excuse, truthfully. And why should it feel so distasteful now when back then, Draco had been only too happy to yank his belt open and lock his legs around Tristan’s hips, lose himself in Tristan’s playful mouth, dull the ache for a few days at a time? It had been a release, and it had been enjoyable. There wasn’t a lot he expected from his on-again, off-again business lover. Just an inside office joke and a spectacular climax every so often. 

But having Harry again made the aftertaste sourer than he remembered.

“Alright, I admit, I don’t believe it.” Tristan laughed. “It’s a ridiculous obsession with commitment. Who are you trying to be, anyway? A straight, married pureblood husband?”

“My god, you are asinine.”

“The word is ‘realistic,’ actually. I doubt you’ve even thought about it in all its facets. Are you sure you’re ready to give up all of this? For one man, Draco? For Merlin’s sake. It’s not in your blood.”

“You wouldn’t have the slightest idea what’s in my blood anymore,” Draco snapped. “Especially now that I’ve _cleansed_ it.”

He turned around in time to watch Tristan’s eyes go cold. But this time Draco really was finished. He wasn’t about to hear anymore seductive shite or field any attempts to batter down his ‘ridiculous obsession with commitment.’ He strode back to his desk, picked up the first few pages of the contract, and shoved them under Tristan’s nose. “Sign. Then leave.”

To his surprise, Tristan grabbed the papers with an efficient snatch, slapped them back down on the desktop, flourished the quill he still held, and signed the final sheet. “I’d like a copy sent to Harry’s office as well, if you aren’t too troubled,” the man said briskly. “Everyone involved should be kept up to date on the project’s status.”

For some reason, that one burrowed right under Draco’s skin and stung there, pulsing poison into his veins. It was a fight to keep his tongue silent. He chewed his lip until he had some control over himself again and then swooped the finalised contract up. “Everyone who needs a copy will have one, Fitzmartin.”

Tristan got up and eyed him coolly. “I doubt your lover would be impressed by your temper. I’ve got to know him a bit, shall we say. He’s not as predictable as I thought.”

Draco didn’t bother to answer. He stuck the contract in his drawer, locked it with a sweep of his wand, and picked up the folder he’d been working on before the Most Hellish of Visits From Tartarus.

Tristan’s hand touched down on the desk, right within his view. “I think I’d like to test the waters, Draco.”

Draco lowered the folder slowly and looked up, leveling his gaze at the man across from him. “Are you threatening me, or are you threatening Harry?” Tristan didn’t say anything immediately, and Draco went on. “I want you to think before you answer, because it will mean the difference between you walking out of here, and you walking anywhere ever again.”

Tristan blinked. His hand slid backward as he straightened up. Draco could see his jaw working. 

“Goodbye, Tristan,” Draco said, looking back down at the folder. “Door’s that way.”

“Pleasure to be working with you again, Draco.” Tristan’s tone was strangely pleasant, if a little less steady than it had been.

Draco ignored him. Made a meaningless note in the margin of one document. Heard the door open and shut in a maddeningly unhurried manner. Counted to four.

Exhaled and let the folder fall back to the desktop, then lowered his head to rest on one forearm. 

“For fuck’s sake.” He had a headache now. And half a mind to cancel the rest of his day— possibly his week— and just go home to whatever Firewhisky his wine cabinet still held. He raised his head and found the small, ornate clock that sat on the right side of his desk. Just after noon. 

Good enough.

Draco took his wand from his desk drawer and aimed it at the hearth to his left. Just a small hearth, really, for calls rather than travel. But who knew? He could most likely find a way to squeeze himself through it if his incentive were great enough. A flick of one finger sent a pile of Floo powder into the flames. “Harry Potter, Weasley Cursebreaking.”

The little fire whooshed green, and a second later Draco could hear the unfamiliar background sounds of another office, another building, and another business. “Harry Potter’s office,” called Harry’s familiar baritone from somewhere else in the room.

“You’ve a habit of shouting at your professional callers?” Draco drawled, unable to keep the relief from stirring in his chest.

Harry’s head emerged from the flames, his handsome face complete with grin. “Oh, just you. I adore favouritism.”

Draco smiled. He couldn’t help it; just seeing Harry’s face loosened something inside him rather alarmingly and Draco had to collect himself in a hurry. “I rather enjoy it, too. Especially when the recipient is me.”

He wasn’t going to talk about Tristan with Harry. Not today, and not over food certainly, and he _wasn’t_ bringing this home. He never had before. Draco felt the tense muscles in his shoulders finally begin to twitch toward relaxation. “Any chance you’ll join me for lunch?” He sighed. “I’ve had a shite day.”

Harry’s forehead wrinkled. “I think I can manage that. Want to meet?”

“Esmeralda’s, in Diagon,” Draco decided. “Give me three minutes to put my office in order.” _To get my head in order._

Harry’s smile was accented by the fire’s light. “I’ll be there in two.”

* * * 

_Tristan_

Harry Potter was a fine catch. His profile was a decisive, firm outline sloping into a graceful throat. He had slightly tanned skin that set itself off well against his dark hair, and there were some men who just looked good in Muggle dress shirts. Especially when the collars were open and the day’s activities were not dressy at all, but regular and dusty.

The shirt in question was blue. It brought out the vivid green of Potter’s eyes. Tristan imagined what those eyes must look like in dim bedroom light, hooded and warm with desire, and staring straight down at the lover pressed beneath that taut, fit body. He felt a brief stab of envy for what Draco Malfoy had.

He was beginning to see why Draco might have thrown his freedom to the wolves in favour of such a blasted thing as monogamy.

Potter had muscle, just enough to show and not enough to repulse. He had a careless way of standing, shading his eyes with one cleanly lined hand that led down to a bared forearm— which only made Tristan think about what everything else might look like naked. He usually hated people like that, those that just had it, the tone, the posture, the frame that drew eye and mind. Those people were rarely perfect in body, contrary to popular belief. Usually it had a lot to do with personality as well, but Tristan wasn’t an idiot; he had a good idea of where and when Harry Potter had achieved that particular gift. Being a hero from nearly the moment one was born could have very good consequences indeed.

An idle thought, there next to the man as he crouched down to flip through the parchment plans on the ground: Harry Potter sweated when he made love, Tristan was sure of it. He probably glistened too, hero that he was. An amusing thought. An arousing thought.

And it was quite obvious that Potter’s second-in-command on the job was absolutely infatuated with him. No wonder Draco was so jumpy. 

Tristan grinned.

“That certainly didn’t take long.”

Harry Potter looked up, an easy smile on his face. “Surveying isn’t the hard part, Mr Fitzmartin. It’s the actual curses that cause problems.” 

Tristan shrugged. “It’s Tristan, if you don’t mind. And I’d say you are just a bit more organised than any other cursebreaker I’ve had the displeasure of contracting.”

“I sincerely appreciate that.” Potter stood, brushing his hands off on his trousers. Tristan watched him scan the rest of the acreage, eyes darting alertly toward each separate area of the plot and calculating. Merlin knew what all he was seeing; the place was old and soon to be developed, and there were plenty of stray curses and hexes lying dormant and in the way. Potter turned back to look at him. “It’s not as bad as I’d expected. I can get the rest of my team out here to handle the minor hexes today, if you want. That ought to speed up your timeline a bit. Cut out a day or two. You’ll need to contract out for Anti-Incendiary Solution and a few types of hellebore-based poison antidotes for all of us before we can get to the western end, though. You’ve got some bad spells lying in wait out there.” 

“Done,” Tristan answered. “In bulk, no less.”

Potter raised his brows. “The licensing process can be a thorn in the foot.”

Well. Harry Potter certainly wasn’t shy. The man was getting more and more fascinating with each minute. “Don’t worry, you’ll have your potions, and legally, by Friday.”

A grin slid over Potter’s face. “Nice to work with someone who’s got his head on straight for a change.”

“The feeling is extremely mutual, I assure you.” Tristan flicked his wand at the plans, rolling them into a neat bundle, and plucking them out of the air. He leaned forward and settled them in Potter’s grasp. Green eyes fixed on his, fingers closing around the sheaf of surveying parchment. 

“Cheers,” Potter said. “It’ll take me an hour or so to adjust your spreadsheets. I can have them sent to your office this afternoon, after we’re finished here.”

“I’m in no hurry. We could meet, if you like. Discuss them over coffee… or let me treat you to dinner. To show the company’s appreciation.”

There certainly was a lot to appreciate here. And there might be more that night, in his bed or Potter’s, and again when the cold light of dawn woke _everyone_ up.

Potter brushed his fringe off his forehead, revealing that intriguing scar, and gave Tristan a surprised glance. “Thank you for the offer.”

Tristan grinned and spread his arms. “Hardly an inconvenience, Harry. It’s rare to come across a man so dedicated to his work. You must have been quite the find for Bill Weasley. And quite a find for me.”

Potter’s mouth curved slightly. “A man who offers dinner to his business partners on the second day is no typical find either.”

Tristan waved it away and stepped closer. “I don’t typically offer dinner, Harry. Just to those I particularly enjoy being around. I look forward to strengthening our relationship.”

Potter turned more fully toward him, an odd look on his face, as if he’d come to some conclusion. He dusted his palms off on his jeans again. “Dealt with that STD then, have you?”

The blow was smart and slick. Tristan could feel the ensuing silence, and lifted his chin. “Interesting topic of conversation. I can’t decide yet if it’s avant garde or just offensive.”

Harry Potter’s eyebrows rose again. “I’m not particularly concerned with what you call it. I just wanted to see the look on your face.”

This was more familiar. It seemed Draco was rubbing off on his lover in more than one way.

“Well.” Tristan cleared his throat. “You’ve seen it.”

“Damned satisfying,” Potter stated without pause.

It had gone a bit wrong, then. Tristan felt simultaneous surges of frustration and jealousy. And desire. Gods almighty, what he wouldn’t give to have the both of them at once, Draco and Harry.

He wished he’d met Potter a year earlier.

“I hadn’t expected you to know me so well,” Tristan said, smirking at the other man. “Usually I don’t give people my sexual history until after dinner.”

“I know who you are,” Harry’s gaze was nothing like the chill of Draco’s and yet it vibrated Tristan’s insides in exactly the same way.

“Are you content, Potter?” he asked. 

Potter’s face had gone downright cold. “Not your business,” he stated flatly. His tone cut off response absolutely. “Now. If we’re finished?”

Tristan didn’t answer, and the simple calm of Harry Potter’s manner was back again, with only the slightest remaining edge to it. The man gave him a nod and a casual salute with the documents he held, then backed away. 

“I’ll send these over as soon as they’re completed,” he called.

Tristan tilted his head toward Potter, and watched as the man moved further away, striding through the grass with his head already deep in the plans he’d once more unfurled. 

* * *

_Draco_

“Salazar.” Draco took a swallow of his wine and tapped the glass down on the coffee table. “I expect he’s never let anyone walk away from him in his entire life.”

“It was good for him then.” Harry finished off his own glass and placed it dramatically on the table beside Draco’s, then spread his arms and leaned back into the couch. “Will you look at me, still doing helpful things for the Wizarding world.”

“And you’ve every right to be cocky about it. The man’s a bloody menace. I can’t believe— no, I absolutely _can_ believe he invited you to dinner.”

“He didn’t invite me to dinner, Draco. He invited me into his trousers.”

“Goody for him.” Draco scowled at his wine flute. “Fucking bastard. Well, go on, then. What did you end up doing with it all?”

Harry shrugged and grinned, a playful sort of smile. “Made an executive decision. Went back to the office, handed the project over to Bill, told him the man was a snake, and rid myself of the whole problem. He’s the worst sort of vindictive prick, and I can’t think of anyone I’d like to work with less.”

Draco frowned. “I resent you calling him a snake. He is not a snake. _I_ was a snake.”

“Oh, please,” Harry laughed. “You’d be honoured to have him in Slytherin, admit it. He’s exactly the type.”

A faint smile flickered at Draco’s mouth. He leaned back, nodding thoughtfully. “I’ll admit it, then. He’d have fit right in, the prick.”

“Personally, I like my Slytherins cleverer.” Harry reached out and grabbed Draco’s shoulder, pulling him relentlessly off balance and backward until he was sprawled across Harry’s chest. “Less arrogant about their showmanship.” He kissed Draco’s temple. “A little more discerning than your average serpent.”

“If you don’t think I’m arrogant or discerning, you haven’t been paying any attention at all.” Draco adjusted his position and settled back with a sigh. “I remember being very arrogant about your boyfriends, and very, very discerning about mine.”

Harry grumbled softly. “A little too discerning.”

“Yes, I was good at selecting, wasn’t I? There was that gorgeous brunet in Shrewsbury. Was it October of last… no, two years ago. And I distinctly remember you being jealous of that bloke, what’s-his-name, Villecourt or some such. He was an adequate shag.”

“Yeah,” Harry snorted. “I was jealous of you, not him.”

Draco smacked Harry’s thigh, and Harry immediately caught his hand and laced their fingers. “Kidding, git.”

“I wasn’t,” Draco said mildly. He turned around until he was facing Harry, leaning into him, and kissed his mouth searchingly. “I said he was an adequate shag, and I meant it. _You_ are a great shag,” he murmured. “A fantastic shag. A shall-we-repeat-this-until-we-pass-out shag.”

“Just a shag then?” Harry snickered, pecking Draco’s lips once, then twice, and again. Draco reached up and caught his chin in one hand, stilling the movement, and deepened the kisses. 

“You’re good for other things,” Draco murmured. Harry chuckled and wrapped his arms around Draco’s middle, pulling him closer. 

“Like what?” he said breathlessly.

Draco smiled at him in a dreamy sort of way. And poked Harry in the arm. “Like purchasing the large bags of crisps.”

~tbc~


	12. Good Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wakes up.

Harry liked the mornings when he tumbled out of sleep and into the watery light of a room with closed drapes. He had always been a firm believer in relegating all things sleep to as much darkness as possible. This morning, his departure from dreams was to find Draco curled against him, already awake.

Draco was an early riser.

“Turn over,” Draco murmured into the junction of Harry’s throat and jaw. Draco’s hands guided the directive, and it was only a few seconds before Harry was flat on his back atop the sheets, deliciously stretched out with Draco’s hands bending his knees up easily and slipping his hips between them. Draco gave his wand a lazy wave before tossing it aside, in favour of easing inside him.

Harry shuddered, a slinky ripple of still-sleepy muscles. There was almost no sound. Draco’s body pressed firmly to his, sliding skin together and radiating drowsy heat. A single kiss touched his mouth, off-center and nearly at the corner. Harry could hear his own quickening breaths, soft huffs of air broken by the breathless exhalations of his lover. There was method; Harry could always recognise it in Draco, even when he might not have actually witnessed it before: these long, slow, deep strokes, and then, just when Harry was about on the verge of falling, short and shallow. Harry bit his own lip and let his mind float, watching Draco’s face and touching their palms together, wrapping his fingers around Draco’s, sliding over his lover’s wrists and back. Draco’s room was a lake-blue shadow with light lapping at the edges as the curtains drifted.

It built without excitement, without focus or calculation. Just rising, each time Draco’s hand cupped Harry’s and each time Draco steadied Harry’s hips with a light clutch. Harry’s lover bent over him, until their chests were together and there was nothing between the heat and the sweat, and the soft sounds of their breaths. He nudged Harry’s nose with his own, mouthing his upper lip in a desperately tender touch. 

“Move in with me, Harry,” Draco murmured. His eyes were full of gentle light.

Harry sighed, long and lasting, and nothing but simplicity pressed in upon him. He squeezed Draco’s hips with his legs, just to feel that he was there. Harry felt sated, and lazier than Hades. 

“Yeah,” he whispered, smiling. “I think I will.”

~~

He pried himself away from a drowsing Draco nearly an hour later, when the growing sounds from outside were fast travelling into the range of undeniable. Draco’s arm, previously so heavy and loose, wrapped itself tightly about his chest and tugged him close. 

“Know for a fact that you don’t work today,” Draco slurred, eyes still closed. “Shouldn’t…” —a yawn— “shouldn’t give away so much useful information, Harry.”

Harry stroked the smooth skin of Draco’s forearm with an idle finger. “Well, I know for a fact that I need to get out of this bed now.”

“It’s all bollocks,” was Draco’s answer. “What about _my_ shag? Haven’t I any rights at all?” 

“You’ve had your shag, you nit.” Harry ran his fingers through Draco’s hair until his lover’s face turned upward, and then kissed his mouth firmly and lengthily. “And I’ve had mine. And now I’ve got to go.”

“Mm?” It was obviously a _why?_ Draco’s lack of energy for proper etiquette never failed to amuse Harry.

“Got big important things to do,” he whispered. He pecked Draco’s ear, and then eased out from beneath his body and sat up. “At home.”

“Bloody flat. Much better here,” came the grumble. A warm hand settled low on Harry’s back and lingered, palm flat. 

Harry grinned and craned his head around. “And just what makes your flat better than mine?”

“I’m here. Of course.” Draco’s arm slid easily around under his middle, and his hand drifted down into the cup of Harry’s thighs, stroking idly. Harry searched behind him until he found Draco’s other hand, raised it to his lips and kissed the inside of the wrist, and then removed Draco’s fingers from between his legs and got out of bed before his breath could grow short again.

“Back to sleep, you,” he admonished. “Going to take me a few hours.” 

Draco mumbled something and rolled over onto his back with a defeated sigh.

“You alright?” came his voice, neutrally. His eyes were closed. Harry studied the other man’s face as he tugged on his trousers and retrieved his shirt, pondering how to answer.

“Yeah,” he said softly, at last. “Just fine.”

“Mm,” Draco breathed. He sounded as though he were very nearly asleep again.

~~

Harry’s flat was blessedly silent, but then, Harry was never sure why that surprised him; there was no reason for any extra noise. He’d warded the place well because sleep was sleep, and there was a time and place for absolute silence. And darkness. Quite different from Draco’s penchant for thinner curtains.

He stood in the middle of his sitting room, arms crossed over his chest, gazing at the walls and all his pictures there. The painting of the mountain with the sun rising behind stretched almost from doorway to doorway. It was the fourth time he’d looked at it; he hadn’t got much further than the sitting room, and he’d meant to be in the bedroom by this time, working on the problem of his largish chest of drawers.

He had plenty of boxes, and who needed them anyway when there were such things as Floos? If only he could get out of this room and on to the next.

But it was no use; he already knew there was nothing for it. He didn’t need a Muggle tape measure to remind him of dimensions. The dresser in the bedroom he hadn’t even looked at yet was too big and too set in its ways to share space with another equally old dresser. 

Harry frowned and rubbed his face. Draco had his own décor, his own hung landscapes and fixed frames. His own much-too-compact sitting room. A short hallway. A modest bathroom. In short, a flat perfectly suited for one man with somewhat particular tastes. Harry couldn’t see his paintings and pictures going up on those white walls next to the aristocratically selected artwork and neatly framed photographs. He knew he wasn’t as art-savvy as his lover. He also knew it would look all wrong.

Not to mention the fact that he had managed to accumulate a lot of stuff over the last seven years. His couch was the colour of earth, his bed he might give up in favour of Draco’s, but he’d earned his way into ownership of his chairs, his kitchenware, his dining room table. And Harry, while willing to part with some of it, was most definitely not willing to part with all. 

The idea of going through his bedroom accoutrements on top of everything felt overwhelmingly tiring. Harry sank down onto his (very brown, very incompatible) couch with a sigh.

~~

It was just after ten when Harry Apparated back to Draco’s.

He came into the kitchen to find Draco standing by the counter wearing a grey dress shirt and dark blue trousers, drinking coffee that steamed fragrantly. He blew on the surface of his coffee and glanced up at Harry.

“Back already,” Draco said. There was curiosity in his tone.

“Yes, because I’ve changed my mind,” Harry stated, and watched the ease disappear from Draco’s face.

The man set his coffee mug down and wiped his fingertips on the folded napkin near them. “Alright,” he said. He headed for the sink, loosing water over his hands. “Too soon, then?”

Harry studied him for several seconds, listening to the water run, and then to the _shff_ of a towel lifted from over the faucet. He smiled and opened the refrigerator, bending to peer in. “Too small. We should get a new place.”

By the time he found the French bread and straightened, Draco was watching him. Harry shrugged. “Somewhere that’s not already yours or mine. Start from scratch, as it were.”

Draco _tsk_ ed. His eyes continued to burn their way through him. “Stop with your Muggle jargon. Not in _my_ house.”

Harry grinned at him, and Draco finally, finally let the smile loose, but only for a blink. He threw the towel hard at Harry’s chest. “What’s wrong with my flat? You said you liked it. Bloody liar.”

Harry laughed.

~tbc~


	13. ...And Good Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too short for a summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, there's a bizarre change in tense for this part. *sigh* Sorry... it felt like a good idea at the time. :(

Harry’s hand comes down as genially as usual on Draco’s shoulder as the other man lowers himself to the couch beside him. Draco’s hissed “Ouch!” is _not_ usual. 

Harry lifts his hand. “What was that?”

Draco’s smirk is familiar. “River troll rampage in the potions delivery vault.”

Harry barks out a “ha!” and Draco winces, rolling his shoulder gingerly and leaning back.

“Fine. Then I backed into a cabinet in the briefing room.”

Harry touches his fingers down just above where he estimates the hurt to be. “Bruised?” he murmurs, bending and kissing the bare skin just above Draco’s shirt collar. Draco sighs.

“If I could actually see that far over my shoulder, Harry—”

The sitting room is full of half-packed containers of many sizes. They’ve eaten on takeaway plates because Draco’s dishes are somewhere in the pristinely stacked towers. Glinting cherry wood chests and ornate antiques to Harry’s sturdy cardboard. Malfoys move in style, while Potters do it with convenience.

But Harry is already easing Draco’s button-down shirt down over his shoulder. Draco bends his head forward with an exhalation, and Harry squints and lays his fingertips against Draco’s skin. He hears the other’s grunt and feels the swelling at the same time.

“Definitely bunged it. But I can’t see any bruise.”

“Feels like I’ve gone purple all down my shoulder blade,” Draco grumbles.

Harry flattens his palm over the sore spot. “Can you reach my wand?”

Draco fumbles about, then hands him the object in question, and Harry spends a moment murmuring over his own left hand, tapping his palm in five places, then stroking outward along each finger with his wand tip. His hand begins to warm and then to glow golden.

“Backed into a cabinet, did you?”

Draco must be rolling his eyes. “Bloody drawer was open.”

“Well, that’s a hazard.” Harry frowns. “Which idiot left it open?”

“I did,” is his lover’s pithy answer.

Harry stifles another laugh. His palm is comfortably tingly now; the last blanket left unpacked is sliding down the couch to coil by Draco’s side, and Harry reaches with his right hand to tug Draco around until they are facing the same direction.

“Lean back, come on.”

Draco complies, pulling the blanket with him, and Harry kneads his left hand gently against the tender skin of Draco’s shoulder. The area is too warm for healthy muscle, too knotted, and Draco fidgets, his discomfort clear. Harry cups Draco’s shoulder and presses, rubs, strokes. He bends one knee up under Draco’s left arm, and Draco slumps onto it, his arm dangling, body resting against Harry’s chest and between his thighs and on the couch.

Harry continues the massage.

It is nearly a minute before Draco lets out a long groan that changes in pitch as it creeps through the quiet room. Harry blinks several times, listening, actually hearing Draco relaxing. As if it is something that can be heard and not seen. Draco’s breathing lengthens.

“Your flat looks smaller now,” Harry murmurs.

Draco’s head shifts, a small shake. “Mm,” he responds without opening his eyes.

“My furniture is cluttering up every one of my closets. Bloody couch won’t shrink right.”

Draco shrugs his right shoulder; the left is boneless and rocking gently under Harry’s massage. “How old’s it?”

“Don’t know.”

“Old,” Draco mumbles. “Old never shrinks right.”

Harry bends his head and touches his lips to Draco’s forehead. “Saw a few more flats. Two were closets, but there was another that looked nice.”

“Hm. Flats.” Draco’s voice is dry.

“So I saw some bigger places, too.” Harry lightly strokes the other man’s jaw. “You should take a look.”

“Think the estate agent’s trying to swindle you.”

“Oh, but not you, huh?”

Draco snorts weakly. “She wouldn’t dare.”

“That a fact?

Draco’s nod could just be a tilt of his head.

“Where’s your other furniture?” Harry says softly.

“Hall closet.” Draco’s voice is almost slurring, his words barely finishing themselves, finishing each other instead. “Except… cept the bed.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. His bed is one of the last things standing in its original place in his own flat. Large, comfortable, his. Smelling of himself and, of course, Draco. He kneads lower against the knot in Draco’s back, and the spell’s heat flows out of his fingertips and pours into his lover’s skin. “How’s that?”

“Mm,” Draco says again, and this time it is very soft, on the threshold of something else. Harry looks down at Draco’s still profile, at the careless angle of his chin and the slope of his throat, at the stillness of his closed eyelids and the sweep of his lashes. His breathing goes suddenly quieter and lengthier, and his muscles slump all at once, just the tiniest bit. Draco’s legs are a long, limp stretch across the couch, ending in black stockinged feet.

Harry’s hand stills, settles onto Draco’s shoulder, and he wonders if there is anything better in the world than having Draco fall asleep in his arms.

~tbc~


	14. The Estate Agent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house hunt continues.

Iliana Prescott, professional estate agent, cocked one of her slender brown eyebrows at Draco as soon as he’d snapped into existence before her, and tapped her fingers on the roll of parchment lying across her desk. “Oh, it’s you then this time, is it? Damn, I’ll have to completely rewrite the viewing schedule.”

Draco smirked at her and removed his cloak, folding it patiently over one arm. “Iliana, don’t any of your other clients challenge you at all?”

“No,” she said bluntly. “They’re all too shy or too grateful to pester me much about my abilities.” Her round face broke into a smile. “Good to see you again. It’s been what, three weeks?”

Draco shook her outstretched hand. “Two weeks and four days. I only remember because each day in that idiotic conference felt like a year. I’ve languished without your charms, Prescott.”

“Bloody nonsense,” she scoffed. “You’ve been with that gorgeous bloke of yours every night. Don’t even deny it; he was tired as hell last week.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. He’s only been running around with that team of his at all hours. I don’t know if I’ve even seen him in my flat for five days. I think yesterday— no, likely I dreamt him.”

“Excellent dream.” Iliana clicked her tongue. She rose from her desk and came around it. “Well, hit him with a slumber charm or something. I showed him one of your ridiculous mansions the other day and he didn’t even bat an eyelash. Almost thought he’d hand over the Galleons right there.”

“Saints preserve us,” Draco muttered.

“So, why don’t _you_ , then?” Iliana looked at him pointedly and held out one hand. Draco eyed it.

“Put that back in the greedy little money bag it came from,” he stated. “You know I’d rather give your life meaning anyway.”

“Bloody bastard,” Iliana said flatly. Draco smirked at her and she rolled those big, coy brown eyes of hers. “Come on, then, the sooner we start the sooner I can slit my wrists when you don’t end up finalising anything. Again.”

“Shall we?” said Draco sweetly, holding out his arm to her. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow with a sharp smile, incanted a Disillusionment, and Apparated them with a bit more of a jerk than he’d expected.

* * *

Their feet hit pavement. The first word out of Draco’s mouth was, “No.”

Iliana stared at him. “No? What’s wrong with it?”

“First, it’s less than a mile from Diagon. I don’t need magical traffic over my… bloody hell, is that a mulberry? Well. Traffic over my mulberry or scuffing up my… excuse for a front porch.”

“Draco Malfoy, that is a perfectly acceptable front porch.”

“It’s a stoop with an awning. I am not living in what looks like a used book shop.”

Iliana sighed loudly. “Merlin, you are the most finicky person I’ve ever met.”

Draco turned on her. “Harry actually said yes to this one?”

“Well… not exactly.” She looked at him, lips pursed. “He hummed. That’s a maybe.”

Draco snorted. “Obviously you’re unfamiliar with the nuances of his humming. That was most likely a ‘well, that’s just adorably pathetic.’”

She grinned. “Well. If it’s adorably pathetic, I might just make a sale.”

“Don’t you dare. He’d go and buy it, just because he felt sorry for it. He would.”

“Would the master like to see the next hovel on the list?”

“Oh, absolutely. Lead on.”

* * *

“I specifically told him no blue,” Draco said. Iliana gazed at the house.

“Two stories,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Lovely front yard,” she said.

“Prescott, I believe our definitions of the word ‘lovely’—”

“ _Acceptable_ front yard.”

“Yes.”

“Not a Muggle bus in sight.”

“Not at this specific point in time.”

“But oh, bother, look, there’s a— no, wait a _moment_ , not a glimmer of a wizard for miles.”

“By that, you mean the next block.”

“Do shut it, Draco, just for a tick.” Iliana raised both hands and extended her arms, posing perkily in the middle of the winding front walk. “Your needs, as defined in your substantially large and obtuse application for my services, have been met.” 

“Except that it’s the colour of a bloody periwinkle,” Draco growled.

She sidled back down the walk with an exaggeratedly slinky stride, grinning from ear to ear. “Harry knew you’d like this one.”

Draco blinked, and then exhaled hard. “That bloody, buggering— He told you to take me here. Didn’t he?”

“He was very attached to it,” she said. Her eyes had widened innocently, but no matter; Draco could still feel the basis of truth to her words. Harry had liked this one. It felt like Harry, even standing out on the sidewalk in front of it. Cosy, friendly, probably affordable. Besides, there were always painting spells and glamours. And Obliviation if Harry noticed.

Draco shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets and sighing. “Alright, let’s have a look.”

“He’s got you by the bollocks,” she sang as she led the way over the _acceptable_ front lawn. 

“Oh, every night I can manage it,” Draco returned loftily. 

Iliana actually blushed. Draco smirked, and she grumbled and busied herself with the front door. With a muttering of spells and a click, the door swung open, and she entered the front hall, lighting the lamps inside with a flick of her wand.

Draco stopped two steps in and stared. 

Well, well, well. The outside was certainly deceptive, wasn’t it? Definitely a Wizarding house, with a hall longer than it should have been and too many rooms leading off of it to fit inside the modest exterior. From the inside, the ceiling looked nearly as tall as the house itself, and Draco knew for a fact that there was another storey above it. He eyed a glittering chandelier nearly bigger than the one his parents had flaunted for years in their third dining room. He eyed golden-edged molding that wove and snaked and curled along the upper lintel, evolving into a particularly intricate ceiling carving that— yes, it was moving, a lazy weave of blue tendrils. Really, very like an ocean.

And that was just the front half of the house. The layout was decadent but homey, each room a different colour. Burnished red, the colour of tapestries, silvery blue and midnight purple. And that gold was everywhere… along with a strange shimmer that seemed to flicker throughout the ornate woodwork. Which of course, prompted commentary.

That, or Iliana’s sudden snicker. 

“Alright, Prescott.” Draco brandished his wand idly. “Shut it off before I turn you into Skrewt.”

“You are too easy!” she guffawed. With a wave of her wand, the gold glimmered away, the woodwork melted into something much more sensible, and the rooms creaked back to their smallish, if comfortable, sizes. Draco sighed to himself as the hallway telescoped down, leaving him with honey-red floorboards and pale yellow walls.

“He put you up to it.”

“No,” she corrected, “he did it. He’s very talented, that one. I asked him to marry me, by the way.”

Draco threw up his hands. “The trim is still blue.”

“Alas, poor Draco,” she sympathised.

“Next,” Draco intoned.

* * *

It was large, pristine, and surrounded by wrought iron fencing with spikes sharp enough to cut the bloody clouds. It was also a sedate cream colour, contrasting the expensive looking gilt window frames and dusky, wavy glass. The roof was tiled unevenly, and vines hung about the doorframe and windows. Red ivy climbed sinuously over the first apex and up the front façade. Draco raised his eyebrows and allowed two seconds of full and undivided appreciation. Then—

“Tell me, exactly how much money are you trying to clean out of his enormous coffers?”

Iliana laughed, letting her head drop back. “Now why would you ever think I’d swindle him?”

“Oh, Prescott. Just a feeling.” Draco shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets, turning up the tiny walkway. Small golden flowers on either side; a pleasant touch. The house was doing well for itself. So far. He stopped in his tracks and stared up at the second floor windows, really looking for the first time. “Salazar and Merlin. Why do you insist on taking him to these gingerbread cottages?”

She was still grinning, he knew it from the way she spoke. “I only show him what he wants to see.”

“Well, I don’t want to see it,” Draco sniffed. “Two yards away from the front door and already it looks like a piece of Muggle kitsch. Alright, take me to the next one then. Surely he saw something worthy of my attention.”

Iliana shook her head in an amused fashion and stepped forward, muttering another Disillusionment and gripping his elbow. They turned and Apparated in the next second, and Draco found himself on a quiet street in the shadow of a row of small two-storey homes. Pink, blue, pea-green, gods forbid. Mauve, mauve, another blue, lilac… 

The one directly in front of them was ice green, with a slender white door and simple matching trim around the windows. The arc of the largest window was wide and gentle, perfectly centered in the front wall. Draco could see the shadowed insides of what looked like a sizable room.

When he didn’t say anything immediately, Iliana dropped his arm and made her way up the walkway— several spaced risers opening onto a small railed porch. The door was heavy and solid-looking, but it swung open without a sound at Iliana’s touch. She stepped inside and out of the way, gesturing him forward. Draco entered into the cool, dimly lit front hall. 

It was a roomy hallway with a high, arcing ceiling. Just ahead, it narrowed as it continued into what Draco could only assume was the dining room, but to the left, the upper part of the dividing wall dropped away to reveal the expansive sitting room Draco had glimpsed through the window. There were more windows along the wall running the depth of the house, letting in streaks of golden orange light from the setting sun. The walls were off-white, contrasting with the dark cherry stain of the trim around the windows and doors. The inside of the huge picture window boasted one more surprise: a ledge with a soft brown cushion and small, empty bookshelves on either end.

Draco turned back to the hallway to find Iliana gazing at him expectantly. He raised his eyebrows at her and went on past without a word, moving down the abbreviated hallway, past a set of wide stairs that he hadn’t seen from the doorway, and finding himself at the edge of another well-sized room. This one had twice as much light, provided by two windows taller than he was in the farthest wall. And between them, a small set of white French doors with glossy woodwork. The handles were gleaming gold, and beyond the glass was a yard full of deep green grass and a single leafy tree that threw shade over the farthest corner.

He gazed to the right and could see the kitchen beyond, and still more windows. More light. Colours beamed motionlessly across the tile floor from some unseen source. Stained glass, perhaps, just out of sight around the doorway. 

Draco reached out slowly and settled one hand on the doorjamb beside him, gripping the smooth wood.

“Well?” Iliana murmured from behind. “What do you think?”

Draco drew a deep, slow breath and let it out. “Floo Harry,” he said at last.

~tbc~


	15. The Second Last Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too short for a summary. See title. *points upward*

The curtains fluttered in the wind. The sound of a car buzzed gently down the street outside, and for once, Draco wasn’t making any noise.

But Harry could only hear one thing clearly. His right ear was pressed to warm, soft skin, and beneath it, as steady as the tick of a clock, Draco’s heart thumped, one-two, one-two. Tump- _tump_ , tump- _tump_. 

The hollow rush of breathing flowed up under Draco’s pulse. Elsewhere, Harry could hear the wind whistling, its pitch rising and falling as it howled over the roof. The arched ceiling above them was cupped in shadow. Draco’s sheets curled around Harry’s ankles in loose folds. He could feel the cool touch of Draco’s skin, the relaxed muscle of his thigh against his own, but heat flowed beneath and beat into Harry’s skin within the cold in an arresting twine of sensation. Harry shut his eyes and counted three slow breaths; then he trailed his hand down over the tensing muscles of his lover’s stomach and slipped his fingers around Draco. Began to stroke slowly.

He listened as Draco’s heart-rate climbed, slipping from tump-tump tump-tump to pit-pat-pit-pat-pitpatpitpat. Draco opened his mouth with a sudden exhalation; Harry felt the skin on his own arms ripple into a shiver. There was no control being forced over the heavy breathing, the unsteady heave of the warm chest under his cheek. There was nothing of the Draco everyone saw in broad daylight, none of the need for discretion or the desire for appearance. Draco breathed brokenly, audibly. It stirred the tips of Harry’s hair in soft rushes. Harry angled his head up until he could see Draco’s pale arm where it was raised over his head and damp with sheen, hand gripping the bedpost in a tight, white fist. Draco’s fingers clenched, loosened, and relocked around the post. Harry wanted to reach, to feel the taut stretch of the tendons there, to run his fingers over Draco’s skin.

Draco’s right knee lifted, the inside of his thigh pressing and trembling against Harry’s hand before dropping flat to the mattress again. His body shuddered, a deep ripple of clenching muscles that worked its way into his breathing and made it hitch. Harry closed his eyes again and pressed his ear to Draco’s chest. 

His lover’s heart was hammering. 

Draco let out a tiny hiss and Harry felt the arch coming, the swift, tight swell of Draco’s chest against his cheek. Some part of the bed creaked; Harry wrapped his hand tighter and stroked upward, short, fast jerks, and Draco’s breath completely stopped in the softest gasp he’d made yet. The only sound was the thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat.

It was a long fall, and Harry listened until Draco was shuddering quietly on the bed again, skin covered in gooseflesh, his breathing rapid and collective. Harry could feel the final tremors playing out under Draco’s flesh, in his hand where he still held Draco, and in his body where Draco pressed against him.

Harry sighed very gently, letting all of his muscles go slack. “Thank you,” he said.

Draco’s chest rose and fell rapidly. He dropped his arm over his eyes and shivered again. Harry looked up in time to watch his throat ripple as he swallowed. 

“Last time I agree to be silent for a while,” Draco managed. “You understand.”

Harry flattened his hand over Draco’s bare, sweaty chest and pressed his lips to his lover’s skin. 

“So.” Draco’s voice was a little clearer. “Get off on heartbeats, do you?”

Harry shrugged. “Suspected I did.”

“I’m worried my room might feel cheated,” was Draco’s glib and tired reply.

They’d bid goodbye to Harry’s flat the previous night, all empty rooms with echoing sounds, and Harry’s bed creaking in the middle of his bedroom as Draco sucked him off and then wrapped Harry around him and shagged him into the headboard. There had certainly been no silence then. Harry’s request tonight had surprised both of them, it seemed.

Draco let out another sigh and slid a hand down Harry’s back, coming to rest just over his hip. “Last orgasm I’ll ever have in this room,” he said. His tone was thoughtful.

Harry nodded. Draco’s fingers tapped gently over his hip, just the loose, absent motion of pensiveness. 

“You liked what you heard?”

“I liked hearing you come,” Harry answered simply. There wasn’t anything to add to it, really. It was the truth; but ‘like’ was not a large enough word for what he’d felt the instant Draco’s body had tightened that last, final inch, the sense of tensing not only under his fingers but in Draco’s heartbeat as well. Gods, he wanted to hear it again, because he couldn’t even begin to define what he’d heard.

“Well.” Draco stretched his arms and legs out so sinuously that Harry heard the light pop of tendons. “I always like hearing you come.” His hand settled on Harry’s back and rubbed lightly, then harder. “Merlin. You’re cold.”

Harry nodded absently. Draco’s heartbeat was still slowing, returning to its normal, steady rhythm. Harry squeezed his fingers at Draco’s side as another shiver threatened, and Draco shifted.

“Want the blanket? Harry.”

Harry could feel Draco’s gaze, feel his fingers brushing tenderly over his shoulder as if tracing symbols. He raised his head slowly, looking at the flutter-pulse in Draco’s throat, and then up at the other man’s face. Draco’s expression morphed, his brow creasing and his eyes flickering. He gazed at Harry for several seconds before saying quietly, “Founders, what did you hear?”

Harry pursed his lips and blinked, worked his mouth. Draco studied him a little longer.

“Hmm,” he said finally with a lifted eyebrow, “maybe next time you’ll have to be the quiet one, then.”

Harry gazed at his lover for a long while, until he could see the questions rising again in Draco’s darkened grey eyes. “Say the word.”

Draco smiled at him curiously and smoothed his hand down Harry’s side once more. Harry lowered himself back down and wrapped his arm tightly around Draco’s waist. Draco continued to stroke his skin, light caresses of fingertips; Harry filled his nose with Draco’s scent, the scent of the room they were about to leave for good, and shut his eyes.

~tbc~


	16. House Warming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving in is a lot of work.

**Draco…**

 

Harry heaved a sigh so heavy that it actually made the wardrobe feel heavier in Draco’s arms. “Oh, fuck it, let’s just transfigure the lot into cotton swabs and levitate it all into the damn house at once so we can go eat lunch!”

Draco stopped walking, which made Harry run into his end of the wardrobe with an _oof_. “Surely that isn’t Harry James Potter I hear inciting me to break Wizarding law.”

“Come on, Draco. One little levitation won’t hurt anyone. They’ll all just assume they were drinking last night.”

Draco smirked and continued carefully backward with his end of the wardrobe. “There’s already a bloody lightening charm on it, and _that’s all_. Muggles, Harry, everywhere around us. Did your brain fall out when that pile of my shirts fell on your head this morning?”

“Oh, they’re not all Muggles.” Harry reaffirmed his grip on the spelled wardrobe, and the tendons in his arms rippled into view again. “That achingly orange house down the next block has enough magic oozing out of it to warrant an arrest. It’s a wonder the Aurors haven’t knocked in the door yet.”

“Dressed as the Salvation Army, I assume.” Draco heaved a sigh of his own. “Think the Muggles would get a laugh out of that?”

“I’d get a laugh out of shrinking this bloody wardrobe.”

“And I’d be most unhappy if you were carted off to Azkaban for the rest of your known life, thus leaving me to my own meagre devices. The horror, not having anyone to bring me off three times a day. I suppose I should start interviewing possible replacements now…”

Harry glared at him. “The hell you will.”

Draco smirked back. “Then _you_ will adhere to the rules Iliana set down for us. No size-altering spells, no levitation, and no Apparating within sight of the other denizens of our street. Only minor weight-altering charms permitted when moving into mixed Muggle-Wizarding neighbourhoods.”

Harry gave him a sarcastic smile. “Yes, I was there, Draco. I even drove the bloody van because _someone_ never bothered to learn to drive.”

“Yes, well, at least I realise that it wouldn’t do for the two of us to simply appear one day with all of our belongings miraculously settled in place as if we’d always been living here.” Draco blew Harry a noisily exaggerated kiss and then slowed his steps. “Oh, wait a tick, I’ve hair in my eye.”

They were nearly to the front door. A cool breeze was blowing, rolling tufty clouds across the sky overhead. Draco stopped and balanced the wardrobe unsteadily on one raised knee so he could brush his fringe back behind his ears again. 

Harry grinned at him, cocking his head. “Next time that happens, I’m brushing your hair back. With both hands. And possibly no clothing.”

“Not while I’m on this side of the wardrobe—”

“Oy, hallo there, gents! Need another hand?” 

Draco looked up and saw a youngish man trotting across the green lawn in trainers, sweatpants, and a long-sleeved shirt. Draco met Harry’s amused gaze, and they both turned to find their visitor nearly upon them.

“I live next door,” the man said with a welcoming smile, “and I thought I’d help out.” He reached out with both hands and grabbed hold of the wardrobe’s nearer side. Draco had a split second of panic before managing to mumble a _Finite_. The wardrobe’s true weight crashed down into his arms. Harry let out a startled grunt, his eyes bugging wide, but then the stranger had a grip on his end and Draco was exchanging pleasantries.

“A next door neighbour already? How fortuitous.”

The man’s grin was toothy and charming. He didn’t seem to care one whit about his hair, which was curly, tangled, and an amazing shade of turquoise. “Bloody hell, this is heavy! How on earth did you ever manage with just the two of you?”

“Oh, Harry’s quite strong,” Draco answered. “I’m Draco Malfoy. And you are?”

“Jesse Sheldon. Lived here for five years now, and I’m pleased to meet you, Draco Malfoy. And Harry…?”

“Potter,” Harry gritted through his teeth. He waited until Jesse said hello and turned back to the wardrobe before aiming a wrathful glare at Draco. Draco clicked his tongue, hefted the wardrobe, and initiated the journey again.

 

**…and Harry…**

 

“I’ve always thought this was a great house,” Jesse said, brushing his hands off and settling them on his hips to survey the master bedroom. “The woman who lived here before, she didn’t have any appreciation for what she could do with all this space. I hope you lads don’t disappoint me.”

Harry laughed. “You do know you’re younger than us ‘lads,’ yeah?”

Jesse waved his hand. “Sorry, old habit. Used to drive my Dad nutters.”

Draco’s hand stretched between them and curled itself around Harry’s wrist. “Come on then, you two, we’ve only five hundred and sixty-seven more boxes and bits of furniture to bring in. And then of course, there are Harry’s things…”

Harry tugged Draco’s hair lightly, and Draco’s hand slipped down to entwine their fingers. Harry saw Jesse’s eyes flick down and then up again, taking it all in, and he suddenly felt grateful that Draco was no slouch when it came to declaring himself and his intentions. If there was going to be some sort of problem, better to know about it now rather than weeks down the line. 

“Colleen’s going to demand you come over for dinner,” Jesse said. He grinned at their blank faces. “My fiancée, and the mother of my lovely baby girl Laurel.”

“When’s the wedding?” Harry asked, relieved at the lack of reaction.

Jesse shrugged. “As soon as we have more than five hundred pounds in the bank at any one time? Oh, we’re not really sure. Just, we both know we’re for each other. Always will be.”

Harry wasn’t certain, but he thought he felt Draco’s fingers tighten around his own.

They trouped out of the bedroom and down the stairs, with Jesse giving them a detailed account of how boring the previous owner’s arrangements were on the ground floor. In the front hallway, Harry pulled Draco up just enough to send Jesse out the door ahead of them.

“I’m blowing you at the top of the stairs the minute he goes home,” Harry whispered in Draco’s ear.

Draco turned an amused look his way. “Why, whatever for?”

He pressed his nose to Draco’s hair and inhaled. “Because you’re proud of us.”

Draco huffed. “Of course I am. Nit.”

“Well, that, and the fact that the house needs at least one shag in every hallway before the night is through.” Harry patted his lover’s cheek and headed out the door after Jesse. 

 

**…and Draco…**

 

Harry’s mismatched plates and multi-coloured mugs of all sizes were on the left, Draco’s elegant and complete set of white and black dishware was on the right, and Draco was happy to note that the glass-fronted cupboard in front of him was more than spacious enough to accommodate all of it. Whistling, he set Harry’s dishes on the lower shelf for easier access, and his own up higher.

“For more formal events,” he murmured. The cupboard gave a satisfying click as it closed. But Draco stopped anyway only two steps from the counter and turned back. He opened the cupboard and squinted at the arrangement. 

The recollection that there were no longer any other cupboards for the dishes to go back to crept over him gradually. No separate kitchens. No separate flats. He took all of Harry’s plates out again, and moved his tidy set of glasses down onto the shelf beside the mugs. Then he put Harry’s hobnob collection of plates and bowls on the higher shelf , side by side with his own.

The click was much more satisfying the next time around. 

Jesse’s incredulous voice out in the hall made him turn. “Harry, this bookcase is amazing. How in the world did you find it?”

“Had it made specially,” was Harry’s reply. “It’s lasted me years. Here, we’ll stick it in the sitting room.”

As they made their way past the kitchen doorway, Jesse went on. “It looks well-built, but it’s bloody light! I’ve never seen a bookcase this size that was this light. What kind of wood is it made of?”

Draco narrowed his eyes as Harry moved into view. “Oh, it’s a unique type,” Harry was saying. “Very rare.”

Draco grabbed one of the balled-up pieces of newspaper they’d used to cushion the dishes and flung it straight at Harry’s head, mouthing the word _wanker!_ Harry just grinned and blew him a kiss of his own.

 

**…and Harry…**

 

“Uh… clothing?” Jesse inquired, holding out a box.

“Upstairs,” Harry said, taking it from him and turning around.

Draco took the box of clothing out of his hands and added it to the stack near the stairs. “Upstairs.”

Jesse picked up another box. “Towels,” he read. 

“Upstairs,” Harry passed the box to Draco.

“Upstairs.” Draco set the box atop the others.

“Blankets?”

“Downstairs.” This time Harry added the box to his stacks.

“Downstairs,” Draco repeated from the base of the stairs. Harry glared at him and found him smirking.

“And…” Jesse frowned, squinting. “It says… cauldrons?”

Draco snorted and Harry had to fight to keep his face straight. “That’s what Draco calls the pots and pans. You’ll get used to it.”

“I’d better,” Jesse sniffed. “First it’s that box of Quiffles or some such whatever, and then there were the bloody robes, and now cauldrons. You lot are odd birds.”

Harry smiled at Jesse and stuck two fingers up at Draco behind his back. “So, you want the upstairs stack or would you rather move the other stuff?”

Jesse’s hands came up in surrender. “Look, I’m just going to go out and get that table you’ve got, if it’s all the same to you. Normal, tables are. And I’ve got to get back home anyway, after. It’s nearly time for dinner and interesting gossip.” He grinned and backed out the front door. 

Draco swaggered up behind Harry, landing a light smack to his arse as he passed. “I’ll just go help, shall I?”

“You are a prat,” Harry hissed.

“Not when I’m pulling you off on the couch later,” Draco sang.

 

**…and Draco…**

 

When Draco finally muscled the mattress of Harry’s bed through the door of the guestroom and down onto its barren frame, it hit with a metallic thud and bounced, leaving the mattress slightly off-centre. Draco took a couple steps backward to reach the wall, slumped against it, and kept going until he was sitting on the floor.

Harry shoved his old school chest into the closet and straightened, looking down at his sprawled lover. “Should have let me help you with that.”

Draco wrenched open the lowest buttons of his shirt and wiped his forehead with a corner of fabric. “Whoever came up with mattresses that stiffen when you shrink them?”

Harry grinned. He tossed their old brooms onto the bed, Firebolt and Nimbus, side by side. “The same person who made attempting to levitate them hilarious.”

Draco pushed off the wall with a sudden grunt, thrust his leg out, and kicked the bed frame soundly. “There, that’s what I think of your boulder of a mattress.”

“Good thing we’re not sleeping on it.” Harry crouched down before Draco and smiled at him. “You know I’m going to have to shag you across it, though.”

“Oh?” Draco’s foot jutted out repeatedly to bump Harry’s shoe, unbalancing him. 

Harry caught himself on one hand and stood up. “Width-wise, Draco. With your knees up over my shoulders and your arse two feet off the mattress’ surface.”

“Well, aren’t we acrobatic today?” Draco stated flatly.

Harry reached down and grabbed both of Draco’s hands. “Yes. Now hurry up, you, we’ve still got your bed to bring up.”

Draco popped to his feet with Harry’s firm tug, and kept going right into his lover’s chest as Harry continued to pull. Arms wrapped tightly around Draco’s body, snugging him in closer, and Harry kissed him soundly, his tongue playing a heated game of chase around the inside of his mouth. Harry stroked a hand upward from the base of Draco’s spine right to his nape, and Draco shuddered.

Harry broke the kiss, tapped Draco’s nose, and stepped back, grinning again. “Slowpoke. Didn’t I tell you to hurry up?”

Draco poked Harry’s chest. “And will you be eating my mattress before or after I grind you into it?”

Harry knocked Draco’s shoulder with a light fist and ran for the stairs laughing.

 

**…and Harry…**

 

“Potter, get a move on, I’m starving!”

Harry heard the bolt click with a solid thunk, and grinned. He pocketed the key, tugged his glove over his hand, and backed up a few steps, gazing fondly at the now-darkened house. He nodded once and then turned, jogging down the walkway toward a now-frowning Draco. Draco spread both hands and raised his eyebrows in an exasperated glare.

Harry grinned. “Sorry. Just wanted to revel in the moment.”

Draco tossed Harry’s knit cap at him, hitting him on the shoulder. “You giant sot. You can look at the bloody house as often as you want to! We _own_ it. Now come on, or I’ll eat you instead of takeaway.”

Harry yanked his cap over his head and matched Draco’s stride, burrowing both hands into his coat pockets. “Bet you’d like that.”

“Actually, no, tonight I’d prefer bangers.” Draco leered. Harry jutted a hip sideways and bumped his lover, making Draco sway outwards toward the street. Harry reached out and caught Draco’s expensively gloved hand, pulling him close again.

“No, I know what you want,” Harry murmured. “You just want to be fed chips and malt vinegar again after I’ve shagged you through the table.”

“Table’s mine,” Draco sing-songed.

“Is not.”

“Is so. I carried it into the house, therefore I get the shagging rights to it.”

“I seem to remember Jesse carrying one half of that table,” Harry teased. Draco turned to him with a superior lift to his chin.

“Yes, and when we’re done using it, I’ll Owl you.”

Harry tugged him until their sides were flush. Draco grinned and leaned into him, so Harry took the opportunity to whisper in his ear. “We’ll see how energetic you are for new neighbours after I’ve finished with you in the front hall.”

“My god, what _are_ the Sheldons going to think? First night here and we’ll already be keeping them awake.” Draco hopped over the watery gutter into a street devoid of cars. “After the table, we’ll go dent a wall in the upstairs hallway, shall we?”

They walked for four blocks, passing cosily lit windows and one or two corner shops. Harry pointed. “All right, there’s a Budgens. Now I can rest comfortably at night.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “Tiny one. They’re not going to have my ginger digestives.”

“Draco, every Budgens in existence has your— Merlin, never mind, they probably don’t, because you’ve already purchased every package in the United Kingdom!” 

“Which you subsequently gobbled up like some bipedal species of swine, Potter.” Draco gave a forlorn sigh and Harry shoved him, snickering. “What in the world did I ever do to deserve such a greedy boyfriend?”

Harry grabbed Draco, spun him, and kissed him thoroughly on the mouth. “Well, you went and shagged him, didn’t you? I’m sorry, but there’s just no going back after that.”

Draco returned the kiss with a tender nip at Harry’s lips. “Better not be.”

Harry leaned in again, wearing what felt like a rather idiotic smile on his face, and Draco, of course, stepped away. “Now, where’s that Fox and Hen that Jesse recommended?” he said, gesturing to one of the pubs that were beginning to appear down the street in the dusky light.

Harry snatched at his departing lover’s arm, missed, and gave a small cry of disappointment. Draco looked back long enough to stick his tongue out at him. 

 

**…and Draco**

 

Harry’s hands were literally covered in salt and vinegar. Draco snatched the chip between his fingers before it could reach Harry’s mouth and stuck it into his own, groaning rapturously at the taste. “Oh, bollocks, that’s good.”

Harry held the bag out as far away from Draco as possible, dipped his other hand in, and crammed several chips into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and then offered the bag to Draco as they walked. “That was my chip.”

“Sorry.” Draco took a bite of the fish he held. “But not really. Damn tasty chip.”

Harry unexpectedly flung an arm around him, nearly making him drop his fish. “Glad someone enjoyed it.” He nuzzled Draco’s cheek and pulled back.

And took the chips with him. 

“Hey.” Draco eyed Harry from across the distance that separated them. “Closer, you.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Harry practically tipped the bag upside down into his mouth, and Draco couldn’t help it, he lunged forward before all was lost.

Harry staggered sideways, laughing, and crumpled the empty bag in his fist. Draco gaped at him. “My chips.”

“No, those are here.” Harry reached into one of his coat pockets and pulled out a second greasy-looking bag, pressing it into Draco’s hands. “Knew you’d steal all of mine. Lucky you went to the loo at the pub so I could buy these other ones.”

Draco growled, snatched the bag, and pushed Harry off the sidewalk onto the walkway that led to their front door. The sky was nearly black, stars peeking through the rushing clouds. Harry smiled as Draco continued to shove him toward the house. “Key’s in my pocket.”

“Which one?”

Harry’s grin just got wider. Draco stepped forward, backing Harry into the door and shoving his coat open. He plunged a hand into one of the pockets of Harry’s jeans. “I’ll just have to find it then.”

Harry’s breathing was a quick rush and sigh against Draco’s face. “Got your own key, you know.”

“I’m not that creative.” He took his time searching through Harry’s pocket, sweeping his fingers all around the inside. Harry watched him, not looking away. Draco looked right back, pulling the other man forward with a gentle jerk on the lip of his pocket, and proceeded to search the other one. The heat in Harry’s eyes made the green there look black. “Deep pockets you’ve got, Harry.”

“And you’ve got confident hands.” Harry shifted against the door, one hand sliding up to Draco’s shoulder. The clink of metal met Draco’s ears just as he felt the tip of a key. He curled his hand around the keychain and rubbed high on Harry’s thigh with his thumb.

And pulled his hand out.

Harry frowned. Draco leaned around him, slipped the key into the lock, gave it a twist, and pushed the door open. He lifted the corner of Harry’s coat and tucked the ring of keys snugly back into the pocket where he’d found them. Harry’s smile made a return appearance. He fisted the collar of Draco’s coat and pulled him backward through the door. “Kitchen. Stow those chips.”

“They’ll be wilted tomorrow.”

“You won’t remember them tomorrow.”

Draco snorted. “I never forget about chips.” But he went to the kitchen and flung them into the refrigerator anyway. Harry was already halfway out of the kitchen by the time the door closed. Draco followed him up the stairs, listening with a surprising amount of satisfaction to the quiet creaks under his feet. Their house… their stairs. Their creaks.

The hallway felt short to Draco, padding along behind Harry to the main bedroom. Harry shed his shoes and coat carelessly as he went, tossing each one away without looking where it landed. Draco toed his shoes off once they’d reached the bedroom. For some reason, the sight of his own bed in the strange room was calming, utterly personal and… nice. Harry’s dresser was there in the corner, nothing in it yet, only full boxes of clothing scattered here and there about the room. But it all looked good together. Draco grinned. He removed his coat and hung it over the open door.

Harry pulled his overshirt off and dropped it on top of the dresser. He ran a hand through his hair and looked down at his watch. “Seven o’clock, plenty of time.” He gave a contented sigh and dropped down on his back on the bed, hands behind his head.

Draco stopped working at his shirt buttons and stared down at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Harry cracked an eyelid at him. “Just trying out the bed. Seeing as we won’t be in it for a while.”

Draco frowned. “Merlin. Why should you have all the fun?” He threw himself bodily onto the bed, bouncing Harry up off the mattress. Harry grabbed for him, missed, and finally managed to get one leg across both of Draco’s, pinning him flat.

“Good god, Draco, what are you trying to do?”

Draco kicked Harry off and flipped over onto his stomach, splaying his arms and legs out as far as he could on both sides. “I’m trying to test the bed, only some oaf is in my way.”

Harry grinned and wrestled himself fitfully underneath Draco’s nearest limbs. Then he flipped over, bending his knees and flinging his arms about randomly until Draco growled. “Just for that, Draco,” Harry said, “I’m shagging you on the front window seat where every innocent dog-walker can see.”

“Mm, we’ll get right to it,” Draco murmured. “Just as soon as I’m satisfied with the bed.”

“Fine. Just as soon as we’re satisfied.”

“Yes.”

“All right.”

“All right.”

“Mm…”

The last thing Draco heard before he fell asleep was the sound of Harry snoring.

~tbc~


	17. An Unfortunate Fact of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The honeymoon takes a rain check.

The tea was too hot, but Draco sighed at the rush of strong herbs over his tongue. He was thirstier than he knew, and actually took a couple of gulps before the heat forced him to stop. At least he could actually keep it down today, though, and enjoy it. That was reward enough. 

Their new doorbell had a truly soothing sound, without any magical help from either of them. Draco put his steaming tea on the coffee table, drew his blanket over his shoulders and rose from the couch, shuffling down the hall to the front door.

It was the third day since they’d moved in, and whatever celebration they might have had had been thoroughly clobbered. At first, Draco had thought it was the pub food, because it hit him low and quick in the belly sometime in the blue darkness of early morning. The disorientation upon waking had nearly caused him not to make the bathroom in time. Harry was slow to rise and follow, and it wasn’t until Draco was back in bed moaning and clutching his stomach that it occurred to him that they were both still fully dressed.

His battle with the bug had been merciful: limited to a day of physical illness that left him tottery and dehydrated. But when Harry had followed suit that very night, Draco knew it wasn’t the pub food. All in all, Draco thought it was the worst way to spend the first weekend in one’s new home.

Part of him still thought it was Harry’s way of getting out of unpacking. Not that Draco had been up to doing much of that anyway.

And now, two days after the onset, Draco was good-naturedly turning Jesse Sheldon’s pretty fiancée away at the door, with the promise of making good on her dinner invitation later.

“Don’t want to get your little girl sick,” he said, smiling faintly. He gestured at the blanket. 

Colleen Fairmont was freckled, chestnut haired, tattooed with ladybugs at the wrists, and very understanding. She also grinned a lot. “If you need anything—soup, juice, someone to run down to Budgens, I’m your girl. Just give a shout through the kitchen window. I’ll leave mine open.”

Draco’s mood gave a genuine lift. “Thank you. So much.”

“Get well,” she said, and trotted down off the front stoop, heading straight across the lawn toward her door. She was wearing gargantuan purple bedroom slippers. Draco’s lips were twitching right up to the moment she waved and disappeared into her house.

He went back to his tea, easing down onto the couch with a groan. God, his stomach felt like it had been pumped with a dish cleaning spell. He slumped into the cushions, the hot mug wrapped in both hands, and stretched his back, trying to ease the sleepy roiling in his gut. Definitely on the mend; he hadn’t sicked up in half a day. But damn it if this thing was going to let its presence be forgotten so quickly. A yawn caught Draco unawares and he gave himself over to it, squeezing his eyes shut and blinking them open blurrily once it was done. “Should go to bed,” he muttered to his tea. “Being a bloody imbecile, staying up like this.”

But Harry had fallen asleep and stayed that way for the first time in two days, for longer than a two-hour stint anyway, and Draco wasn’t about to bumble into bed and jar him awake. When Harry woke up, he tended to throw up, and that was just not something Draco wanted him doing anymore. Not after last night. If the stomach cramping hadn’t managed to yank Harry out of sleep, then the chills and the fever had, and Draco along with it, except for the one time when he’d been so exhausted he’d missed Harry’s initial attack and woke to find his lover half out of the bed, coughing, back muscles tensed as he was sick into the pail they’d magicked up earlier for Draco.

This morning, Harry had looked more than a little white around the edges. His inability to consume water had started to concern Draco until around six, when Harry had downed an entire glass and then managed to not bring it back up before drifting into an uncomfortable doze. Draco had briefly considered soup again, but the lesson of the last time had been more than enough to teach him: just the scent of it sent Harry into immediate and violent retching. Draco had no desire to put Harry through it again.

When Harry’s doze had morphed into a deeper sleep instead of groggy restlessness, Draco had risen and gone downstairs to make himself something. Anything he could stomach, literally. 

As it turned out, ginger tea was it. Draco sipped at his tea, watching the morning light from under droopy eyelids and letting each muscle sink into relaxation. Until he found himself jolting awake when lukewarm tea soaked through the leg of his pyjama pants. Draco sat up, rubbing his face. The light had changed a little; still before noon, but—

He heaved himself off the couch, setting the half-full mug down with a hard clink, and made for the stairs. The house was silent, and Draco felt the drag of each step up to the first storey. He was breathing much too hard when he reached the top landing, and for a moment, he felt dizziness fingering its way into his brain. It passed quickly enough, and he padded down the hall to the master bedroom.

Harry lay in bed with the covers tucked up under his arm and tangled around his legs, the result of much tossing and turning. He was on the opposite side of the bed from the one he’d been on earlier, but there was nothing new in the pail when Draco peered into it. Harry seemed to be asleep.

The tension eased minutely out of Draco’s shoulders. He sighed, rubbing his face again. The room was deliciously dark, the thick curtains they’d hung on moving day blocking out most of the sunlight. Immediately, Draco felt drowsy, the slight flood of adrenaline seeping away. He thought about heading back downstairs to the couch so as not to disturb Harry, or across the hall to the appointed guest room, but either trek just seemed so overly long now that he’d made it upstairs, and besides, Harry’s bed was still lacking sheets.

Harry groaned miserably, a painful sound. His body curled, knees tucking toward his chest. Draco sat on the bed and reached one hand out, touching down gently on Harry’s bare upper arm. Harry shifted again, rolling onto his back and coughing in that worrisome, throat-clearing way. But he didn’t wake up and throw himself toward the nearest rubbish bin this time, and Draco relaxed again. He watched Harry’s fingers spasm over his own belly, just above the hem of the sheet where his movements had pulled it down.

It was a bad idea; Draco knew it. He had been this sick before. The slightest touch of pressure was often enough to topple the balance and send the sick person into dry heaves. But he couldn’t stop his hand in time, and it moved, alighting open-palmed on Harry’s stomach just near where his hand rested. Harry continued to breathe deeply and Draco splayed his fingers until his hand was flat against Harry’s belly, pooling heat under his palm.

The wrinkle at Harry’s brow eased. He gave a little mumbling sound that sounded like gibberish. Draco noted that Harry’s lips were chapped, but that his face had gained a little of its colour back. Draco tugged his blanket up off the floor and lay down slowly until he couldn’t stop his fall, and then he was on the duvet beside Harry, his head on a blessedly soft pillow, and his feet warm under his blanket. He reached up and tucked it in closer to his throat, then adjusted Harry’s covers until they shielded his arms and shoulders. Harry continued to breathe steadily, mouth open like a child’s. Draco exhaled, and waited for the same sleep to catch him up again.

~tbc~


	18. Compromised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco wants to try something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Bondage

“Don’t know about this,” Harry said, thoughtful. “When I say yes to one of your ‘curiosities,’ it usually means we’ve been drinking a lot and there are lusty elderly men nearby with beady eyes.”

“Salazar, Potter. Must you always bring up Brighton?”

“Rather singular experience.” 

Draco nipped his jaw with his teeth. “You enjoyed yourself.”

Harry shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, but knew Draco could see the grin lurking. 

“Come on, Potter,” Draco wheedled, rubbing a nipple through Harry’s shirt with the heel of his palm. “Gives you character. Say yes.”

Harry squirmed. He squinted up at Draco, because the prat had already removed his glasses, of course. First step towards absolute power. “Why should I?”

“Because I’m madly in love with you, Harry, and that sort of devotion should be rewarded.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “So altruistic. All right. _Yes_.”

Draco kissed him sweetly on the mouth, while still managing to make it feel dirty as hell. “There’s a good sport. Arms up, then.”

Harry raised both arms so Draco could help him out of his shirt. “When are you going to teach me to kiss like that? I feel neglected.”

He wasn’t even finished with the sentence before Draco kissed him again, this one thorough and most definitely filthy. Harry hummed his enjoyment until Draco finished. “Yes, very nice. Not neglected in that way, thanks.”

“As if you didn’t write the book on snogging, stripping and shagging blokes rotten with a single kiss.” Draco unzipped Harry’s fly and tapped his hips. Harry lifted up until Draco got his trousers down to his knees, and then kicked them off.

“Well, I’ve forgotten the details then,” he mused. Draco shook his head at him; his grin was incredulous.

“No, keep your arms up,” he said when Harry moved to start on Draco’s clothing. Intrigued, Harry did as he was ordered while Draco tugged off his own shirt, twisted it deftly in both hands, and leaned up to wrap it around Harry’s wrists. “See, this is why I wanted my bed in the master bedroom,” he murmured, winding the long sleeves snugly around one of the iron rods in the frame.

“Bloody hell it is,” Harry scoffed. He gripped the rod with both hands, giving Draco slack to work with. “I remember you saying the exact same thing about why you couldn’t live without my four-poster.”

Draco shrugged. He unbuttoned his trousers and shimmied out of them, lithe as an otter. “Different criteria, different benefits.”

“Ankles?” Harry straightened his legs expectantly, but Draco flicked his fringe back and shook his head.

“Not tonight, lover.”

“Indeed, this is new and uncharted territory.” Harry got a smack on his hip for that one as Draco got off the bed. He went to their dresser and pulled out a long, black sock, stretching it tight between his hands before letting it snap short. There was a sultry leer on his face.

“I promise I won’t tie it tight.”

Harry tilted his head, watching Draco climb back over him. Draco ran a hand through Harry’s hair again, smoothing it away from his eyes. “Lift up your head?”

He’d already done it before he realised what Draco intended. The sock was centimeters away when Harry pulled back. “Wait, I don’t know.”

Draco sat up and, after a moment, he stroked Harry’s chest with the sock. The fabric was soft, elastic. More than long enough for a loose knot. “Feels all right, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry fought the frown. “It’s fine. Only I don’t like the idea of not being able to see.”

Draco grinned. “You’ll see with your other senses. That’s the point. It’s marvelous, not knowing what’s coming or where.”

Harry glanced at the sock. “I don’t doubt it.”

Draco’s smile faded, then gentled. He leaned in, this time giving Harry a kiss that truly was chaste. Lasting. His hands splayed, warm and open on Harry’s chest. “I’m the only one here with you. You trust me, right?”

Harry kissed him back. “Completely.” _I just… like having my sight._ But Draco was right; Harry did trust him, after all they’d done together, all they’d managed to slog through before getting here. Everything he’d put Draco through on the way. Draco said it was a two-way street, but Harry still blamed himself for all the remembered loneliness, even vacancy, in Draco’s eyes.

Draco lifted the sock, letting its length unfurl until the end tickled the base of Harry’s throat. “We’ll try it?”

Harry breathed in, then out, through his nose. Nodded. “Yeah. Try anything once.”

“There’s my hero.”

The statement left a flat feeling in Harry’s belly. He cleared his throat and shifted, suddenly finding a hundred reasons to feel uncomfortable. Near-unnoticeable imperfections in the mattress that he’d never, ever cared about before seemed to jab on every nerve. Draco bent and smoothed the sheet as he fidgeted. 

“Better?”

Harry nodded and gave up. He lifted his head dutifully, focusing on breathing, on the fact that he’d slept with Draco in this bed more than he’d slept in any other bed, even his own, now down the hall in the guest room. It was a luxurious bed that smelled like them, with sheets he’d put on himself. Draco bound the sock loosely over his eyes and guided his head back down with one hand. Harry attempted blinking, opening his eyes, but the blindfold pushed his eyelashes the wrong way and he gave that up, too.

“Can you see through it?” Draco asked from beyond the black strip.

“Not unless you’ve cast a darkening spell over the whole room.”

Draco laughed. Fingers touched his lips, brushing under his nose. Harry inhaled sharply. 

“I’m not… quite comfortable.”

He could almost sense Draco’s frown as Draco leaned forward again, wiggling two fingers between Harry’s head and the sock. “Not too tight, is it?”

“No, that’s not— I don’t know.” 

Lips touched his, first a tiny taste, and then a real kiss, tempting his mouth open patiently. Draco pulled away enough to whisper, “I’ll just have to distract you then, won’t I?”

Harry was all for being distracted. But as Draco’s ministrations went on, hands Harry knew skimming along his sides, mouth urgent against his, Harry couldn’t let himself be properly distracted. He returned Draco’s kisses harder than he intended, trying to fall into what they were doing. His eyes felt pressed into his skull. He knew the sock wasn’t tight; hell, it was sliding around a little even now. But it still felt cinched in, the knot huge against the back of his head. Shapes ballooned in and out behind his eyelids. Harry jumped when Draco licked his way down his throat.

The hands stilled. “You look incredible like this,” came Draco’s voice, very near his ear. The sound of it slowed Harry’s pulse a little. He exhaled, realising he hadn’t done that in a while.

“I don’t feel incredible,” Harry muttered. Draco caressed his forehead, fingers sliding through his hair. Playing with the strands. 

“You will. We’ll take it slow. Feels best that way anyway.”

Harry pressed his lips together as Draco went back to work on the hollow of his throat, waiting for it to ‘feel best.’ Merlin, he couldn’t even move his hands, just so he could feel where Draco was, where he was going next. Body heat was all he had, completely detached from the touch of that tongue and the skim of those lips. Harry clenched his toes, unable to keep still under the onslaught. And… yes, it felt like an onslaught; he couldn’t see what was happening to him, what was happening to Draco. All he could do was lie there and feel his body being explored, and watch the shapes explode and contract in front of his eyes. He heard too-swift breathing: his own.

Draco paused, one hand on Harry’s chest. “Harry. Calm down.” 

“Take it off.” His jaw clenched so hard he could barely speak. “I— now.”

“Harry—”

The shapes swarmed his vision. Harry grappled outward frantically with every thought he could muster, and the binding around his hands snapped free with a hiss. He struggled out of the shirt’s smoking folds and yanked the blindfold off so quickly he scratched his cheek. Every muscle jumped at once; Harry scrambled upright on the bed, blinking, pushing Draco off of him, smelling charred fabric. He couldn’t see anything but shapes, weird colors, all blurry. His heart raced against his ribs. He rubbed his eyes until the focus returned.

Draco stared at him, face twisted into a disbelieving scowl. “What the hell, Harry?”

“Needed it off,” Harry breathed, but Draco thrust a handful of burnt fabric under his nose. 

“Could you have waited one second?” He shook the remains of the garment. “You’ve ruined my shirt!”

Harry glared over the offending item. “I asked you to take it off. You didn’t. So I did.”

Draco made a disgusted sound. “You didn’t give me any time, did you? What the hell happened?”

“I don’t want to be blind!” Harry snapped. “I’m not comfortable with it, Draco!”

“You didn’t give it much of a chance.” Draco’s fingers clenched around the wrecked shirt. “Next time you might want to warn me before you start frying things.”

Anger erupted in Harry’s chest. “ _Next_ time?”

Draco threw his hands up. “Oh, for god’s sake, Harry.”

“I am not doing this again!” Harry flung the sock from the bed, sending it off with an accidental burst of magic. It smacked against the wall and fell to the rug. Draco’s cheeks turned bright red. His mouth worked.

“What is your problem?”

Harry did not answer.

“My god. You _don’t_ trust me. After everything, you still don’t trust me!” The edges of Draco’s lips paled to near-white.

“That’s not what this is about,” Harry snarled. Draco snorted.

“From this angle, that’s exactly what this is about! I can’t believe this,” Draco went on, almost to himself. “I cannot believe this.”

“Oh, you can think whatever you want, Draco,” Harry gritted out. “You always do.”

 _“Eight years,”_ Draco snapped, rounding on him. “Eight years, all the shit we’ve been through, and you don’t feel you’re safe with me!”

Harry reeled, feeling physically slapped by Draco’s words, not because they weren’t true, but because Draco said them like he actually believed them. He really— But the anger was stronger. “Don’t turn this around! If I didn’t trust you, I’d never have let you blindfold me at all!”

“If you trusted me, you wouldn’t react like I just attacked you!”

Logically, Harry knew the damage of what he’d done, of being pushed away so soundly. Of being the object of someone’s repulsion. But logic could fuck off, and so could reason. “Fuck it, Draco, I’m done explaining!” He got off the bed and snatched his pillow. His nerves were a jangling mess. But he made it to the door and slammed it behind him. He almost went into the guest room. The shadows of the posts fell across Harry’s old mattress in dark streaks. That bed was too close to the other; he still pictured them in it. 

Harry stomped downstairs, heading for the couch. 

* * * 

It didn’t matter. He couldn’t sleep without Draco next to him. 

Harry turned onto his stomach. The couch creaked; it was an alien sound. His leg felt sore, as if the muscle had cramped up recently. Had to be the couch. He pressed a hand to his face, blotting out his sight again, but he couldn’t get the same measure of anger back. 

It had been gone for a while, truthfully, sifted away like loose sand. Fuck, he didn’t like the dark, but not just the dark: the all-encompassing dark. Harry thought of tiny black cupboards and grimaced. He shoved the memory back. Years of practice made it easy; hell, not having to forget about it for a decade made it _easy_. And Draco knew about that, but Harry hadn’t bothered to explain, back in their room; it wasn’t a connection he himself would necessarily have made, had their roles been reversed. He was nothing like the child he’d been, their room was nothing like that cupboard, and Draco was absolutely nothing like the Dursleys. Harry sat up and rubbed his head again. 

It wasn’t even about the cupboard anyway. It had expanded beyond the cupboard. Harry didn’t get the jitters when he went for his coats or his shoes or a pan to cook with, and the kitchen cupboards resembled the one he’d been forced into more than any full-sized wardrobe. He didn’t mind it when the lights were off. He’d closed his eyes plenty of times and stood there in the dark, and of course he’d closed his eyes while he was tied up, with Draco doing incredible things to his skin and feet and throat. Technically, there was no difference.

Except there was, and he couldn’t figure his way around it.

He didn’t want to sleep down here. Harry dropped his head into his hands. A headache was forming. The first night in the house without either of them violently sicking up or feeling dizzy, and Harry was down on the couch. By choice.

What exactly did he think would happen? He tried to shove the anxiety away. Draco would not hurt him; he wasn’t that type of person. There were reasons Harry loved him. Trust had never been a problem between the two of them, and certainly not during sex. Merlin, Harry had never even bottomed for anyone until he had for Draco, years ago. Felt like ages. And no one else since. It just wasn’t his idea of a good time, but with Draco, he’d never felt compunction about it, except for that first night. 

Harry sighed heavily. Even then, he’d not felt _afraid_. Not like this.

He wanted to tell Draco that it wasn’t him that he was afraid of. But he didn’t know how to word it, how to describe the problem. Harry didn’t even have a grasp on it himself. Logically, he should be able to let Draco blindfold him. If he could let Draco do everything else— But logic wasn’t working.

He wondered if there was anything Draco was irrationally afraid of. Something Harry had already done, perhaps. It was a disconcerting thought.

Harry leaned back into the couch and stared at the windows, trying not to let the idea crawl into even more uncomfortable places.

The squeal of a hinge sounded in the kitchen, followed by a clink. Harry looked over at the rectangle of blue darkness. The refrigerator opened, shafting yellow light across the floor. Harry heard the trickle of liquid filling a glass. He sat for one long moment, and then got up.

Draco stood at the sink, and Harry stopped in the doorway, noting the hand Draco had pressed to his forehead. His other hand encircled the glass where it sat on the worktop, filled with juice. Draco stopped massaging his temples and lifted the glass at the same time, draining it in three long gulps. He leaned on the worktop and stared down at it. The skin of his shoulders was taut and blue in the moonlight; his bare feet were covered in shadows. All of his toes were curling. 

God, Harry wanted him. He wanted Draco to want him. To not be afraid of him, because he wasn’t afraid of Draco, even if he couldn’t manage to convey that properly. He stepped into the kitchen.

The floor creaked, and Draco spun, hand clenching around his glass. Harry halted, aware that he’d just scared Draco in an entirely different capacity. But Draco’s shock faded quickly. He set the glass down and cleared his throat.

“Sorry if I woke you,” Draco muttered. “Thought you were in the guest room.” He didn’t look at Harry.

“You didn’t wake me.”

A single nod. There were circles under Draco’s eyes, thin lines about his mouth. Harry moved toward him.

Draco shook his head. Grimaced. “I’m going.” He turned toward the kitchen doorway. Harry caught his wrist, pulling him back. Draco met his eyes and flinched. “Harry, I won’t—”

Harry snugged his hands around Draco’s hips and eased them together. Draco fell silent. His face looked desperate. Whether it was to get away or to get something from him, Harry never knew. He kissed Draco’s mouth gently. Draco shivered, Harry felt it against his lips. Otherwise Draco did not move, and then suddenly he did, mouthing Harry’s lips, exhaling, jerking back.

Harry gripped and lifted, setting Draco on the worktop. Draco’s hands clenched at his shoulders, but Harry didn’t give him time to speak. He kissed Draco, deep and thorough, pressing into the cradle of his thighs. Draco broke off, then seized Harry’s face in both hands and ravished his mouth. Harry tugged Draco forward with a hand at the small of his back. Draco made a needy sound against Harry’s mouth, and Harry shoved his hand under the waistline of Draco’s boxers, jerking them down. Draco wrestled his way out of them, rocking into Harry and clutching him bodily, pushing at Harry’s pyjama bottoms. Draco breathed, “I’m sorry, I never—”

Harry rolled his hips against Draco’s, pushing him back on the worktop. Draco’s words cut off; his head thunked back against the cupboard, and Harry found him with eyes squeezed shut, open-mouthed to the ceiling. He laved Draco’s chest with his tongue, tasted the unsteady heave as Draco struggled for air, pressed breathless kisses, and thrust his hips again. Draco curled over, hands tangled in Harry’s hair, panting heavily into the strands. 

Harry yanked his pyjama pants down to mid-thigh and gathered Draco as close as he could get him. Draco shuddered violently, wrapping his leg around Harry’s hip. Harry knew immediately that this would be sharp and short. He pulled up from Draco’s chest and Draco drowned him immediately, seeking with his tongue, messy and full and desperate, not so much a kiss as a mashing of mouths. Harry urged Draco to the edge of the worktop and then stopped trying to control things.

Draco came, rigid, straining against Harry, palms damp. Squeezing Harry’s nape. Twisting in his hair. Harry held out for two seconds longer, and then collapsed against Draco, heaving air into his lungs. Draco’s fingers moved down, tightened and released on Harry’s shoulders. Tightened and released.

A sluggish moment; Harry felt for the dishcloth hanging on the cabinet. Draco’s hands skated across Harry’s face, still shaking. Draco’s mouth touched to his, lifted, touched again. A kiss and then another one. Each one brushed Harry’s mouth, separated by Draco’s short, swift breaths.

Harry found the cloth and then forgot to use it, clenching it against Draco’s side, lost in stroking the skin there with his thumb.

“Come upstairs,” Draco breathed. “Harry—”

Harry nodded him into another kiss. “Yeah,” he whispered.

*  
*  
*

Midway through the morning, Draco rested his cheek in one hand and watched Harry stumble up from bed and head for the window. Harry popped it shut and twisted the lock, then turned, hopping from one foot to the other.

“Floor’s too bloody cold,” Harry said, and practically darted back to the bed.

Draco snickered as Harry yanked the duvet back and floundered across the bed on all fours, bouncing him. For a second, he was certain Harry aimed to do something monstrously childish, involving tickling or buzzing his stomach. He lifted his knees defensively, but Harry only fell in between them, wriggling up Draco’s body until they were pressed all along their fronts. Draco snorted laughter, and Harry grinned and kissed his chin. His hips settled neatly between Draco’s thighs, warm skin pouring heat into Draco’s pelvis.

Draco cleared his throat and slapped Harry’s backside. He smoothed his hand over the spot. 

“Yes, oddly, that down there doesn’t feel like imminent sex,” he said, shifting his hips to emphasise his point.

Harry just smiled. “I’m afraid it’s not.” He tucked both arms under Draco’s shoulders and leaned there over him, propped on his elbows. “Just want to lie here with you.”

“Lie here _on_ me,” Draco sniffed. 

Harry bumped their noses.

“All right, fine.” Draco gave Harry’s arse a last pat and settled his arm over his lover’s lower back. 

Harry kissed his cheek. A new awareness slipped into his eyes. He glanced back toward their jumble of legs. “I do believe you went to sleep without your shorts.”

Draco waved a hand. “Left them downstairs. Hazards of kitchen sex. They’re in the bloody cooker for all I know.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“It’s our house,” Draco countered. “I’ll sleep in my shorts or not if I want to.”

Harry stroked fingers through Draco’s hair. “Next time, just say the word. I’ll get you a pair of mine.”

“Mm, so sweet.” Draco closed his eyes. Harry was a heavy, comforting presence atop him, the contact between their legs intimate and sleepy. He circled his hand at the curve of Harry’s back. “I’m glad you came back to bed.”

When he opened his eyes, Harry’s smile had gone childlike. “Me too."

“And we’re all right? From last night.”

Harry looked at him. His expression was restful. “We’re just fine.” He kissed Draco’s lips.

Draco returned the kiss, but continued speaking once they’d parted. “I didn’t know it was a sore spot, Harry.”

This time Harry’s eyes went strangely haunted. Draco frowned. Harry nuzzled his cheek, rubbing like a cat, then pulled back with a sigh. “I’m just sorry I can’t make you feel good with it.”

Draco snorted. “Oh, Potter. One method in five million, and you’re heartsick over it. You, my friend, are incredible at making me feel good. We’ll forgo the blindfolds.”

Harry’s eyes lingered. “You like them,” he said in a low voice. Draco looked back, troubled at the abrupt twinge he felt in his chest. The idea that he’d never use those things again felt more final than he liked.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. He touched Harry’s face. “It is.”

Harry’s distress did not recede, and suddenly Draco couldn’t look at it anymore. He inhaled deeply, stretching both arms over his head. Harry’s stomach pressed to his as he arched. Draco rubbed a hand down Harry’s side. “It’s fine, Harry. Really. And now, I believe we’re both up, we’ve a house to introduce ourselves to, and an entire two days off to do it.”

His grin was wickedly returned. Harry made a sinuous effort to push himself off of Draco. “Think we should see to that sizeable shower first.”

~tbc~


	19. Logistically Speaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old friend shows up.

“Harry? By all the Founders, Harry Potter!”

Harry turned; he knew that voice. Sure enough, the square jaw and sharp blue eyes under hair the color of grain slid home immediately.

Harry grinned, helpless to check it. “Warren!”

Warren Monroe strode up to the table and dragged Harry to his feet. Harry laughed and clapped him around the back. “Merlin, Warren, it’s been ages! What in god’s name are you doing here?”

Warren released him and took the chair across the table, settling into it with a sigh. “Oh, you know. Convention.” His eyes darted away.

Harry leaned forward. “Wait just a minute.”

“Shut it, Harry.”

“No, no, I distinctly remember someone saying he’d never be bullied into recruitment conventions, pushing all that propaganda, ‘oh yeah, I’ll work for them, but I refuse to suck any more innocents into their web’? Sounds awfully familiar.”

Warren’s cheeks flushed. He wadded up a napkin and tossed it at Harry’s head. “Yeah, well. I might like the job now. They’re not a bad company to work for. Anymore.”

“Yes, because they were so evil at one time.”

Warren balled up his fist threateningly, and Harry laughed. He sat back. “It’s good to see you. It really has been forever.”

“They’ve been keeping me so busy I couldn’t even get tired of the hotel rooms. I must have been to forty countries in the past two years alone.”

“Ooh, he _travels_ for a living.”

Warren cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, sugarcoat it. Make me feel better about my sins.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re liking your work. Did you want a coffee?” Harry held up his mug, but Warren shook his head. 

“Don’t drink the stuff anymore.” He cleared his throat importantly, and smirked when Harry began to applaud. “Well, I did say I’d stop. Never let it be said that Warren Monroe couldn’t stick to a goal.”

“I’d think that’s obvious, all things considered.” Harry tossed him the second chocolate chip cookie from his plate. Warren caught it in both hands.

“Cheers, mate.” He took a bite. “Mmm. I’ll have to come here again before I leave. So, you. Still with Bill Weasley’s firm?”

Harry nodded, sipping his coffee. “On my way back over there, actually. This is lunch.”

“Some lunch.” Warren gave Harry a cheerful grin that he recalled all too well. Harry hadn’t realised he’d missed it. Warren looked skyward thoughtfully. “Bill Weasley, I always said he’d go far. I suppose he’s running the industry by now.”

“Trying, in that unassuming way he’s got.” They shared a chuckle. Harry set his coffee down. “So, how long are you in London?”

“I’ve a week to kill.” Warren gestured vaguely with one hand. “Feel like getting together nights? Show me around, since you’re the knowledgeable one.”

Harry smiled lightly. “Warren, I can’t anymore. Certain parties would object.”

Warren’s expression opened into surprise. “Well, well.” He reached across the table and clapped Harry’s shoulder with a laugh. “Anyone I know?”

“Draco Malfoy.”

Warren’s eyes darkened appreciatively. “Nice choice, Harry. _Very_ nice. How long?”

“From the beginning or just our most recent venture?” Harry caught himself. He wasn’t so in favour of discussing the intimacies of his and Draco’s relationship with outsiders. But Warren wasn’t exactly an outsider, and there was something in his frame, his attention and stance, that brought it out.

“Most recent,” Warren decided without even a blink.

Harry nodded. “We’ve been seeing each other for about two years.”

Warren shook his head, looking exasperated and fond all at once. “For Godric’s sake, why don’t you write and tell a bloke, Potter?”

Harry laughed, glad the question was rhetorical. There were other people he’d known for even longer whom he hadn’t written to tell. Or Flooed. Or called. And he didn’t feel guilty about that. He’d get round to it eventually, he knew. But this, he and Draco and their home and… Harry smiled. This was theirs.

“Well, all right then.” Warren popped the remainder of the cookie into his mouth and chewed. Swallowed. “Casual sex is out, alas. But you’ve at least got to have a drink with me, the both of you, if Draco’s not averse to the idea. I think it’s been even longer since I’ve seen him.”

“I doubt he’d be averse to a drink, especially with you.” Warren had always been the most entertaining companion on pub crawls that Harry had ever known. He knew the answer to every single quiz question, even when he was falling down drunk, and that took some doing. Whatever they’d had, it went beyond the casual sex that Warren was pretending to mourn at that moment.

Warren nodded. He studied Harry, and then a thoughtful smile nudged at his lips and he nodded again. “It works. I’d never have come up with it on my own, but that works, Harry. You and him.”

“I should hope so.” Harry laughed.

Warren’s gaze continued to sparkle. His smile warmed into something breathtaking. “What I wouldn’t give to—” He stopped and gave his head a shake. “Beautiful.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, but Warren just lifted his hands and got up. “I should actually be at a round table discussion right now, so I’d better shove off. You tell him I’m in town.” He pointed a long finger at Harry. “We all still have to eat and get pissed on a daily basis, after all.”

Harry waved and watched him go, thoughtful.

* * *

“Ran into Warren Monroe today at the café.”

Draco laughed, a rich chuckle. “I remember him, do you remember, he had this way of just _rolling_ you, didn’t matter how determined you were to be the one on top that night. Or on the bottom, or anywhere, really. The best part was that by the end, you were entirely sure it’d been your idea the whole time.”

Harry smiled slowly. “Yeah. Used to bite my jaw, too. Just at the end.”

“He was uncommonly good at shagging. And multitasking.” Draco’s grin faded into fondness as he settled back against the pillows, hitching one knee up.

“Uh huh.” Harry let the quiet close in around the two of them again. Draco’s breathing was such a familiar sound. He listened to it without speaking for nearly fifteen seconds. “Question.”

“Hm.”

Harry stretched his legs under the covers. “You ever considered a threesome?”

Draco looked at him, then rolled over on his side to face him. “Generally? Or specifically?”

Harry shrugged. “Specifically. I bloody well know it’s occurred to you in a general sense.”

Draco’s lips quirked for a second, and then went docile once more. “Adding someone, then.” He gestured to their bed. To them. Harry raised his eyebrows and nodded.

Draco inhaled, then exhaled into his answer. “Yes. Yes, I think about a threesome every time I see a good-looking bloke on the street. Hell, every time I see _you_ seeing a good-looking bloke on the street. And there are plenty of them, as you well know.”

Harry smiled faintly. “I’ve thought about it, too.”

Draco nodded. His gaze fixed on the bedspread between them and his eyes narrowed as if he were seeing something that wasn’t supposed to be there. “But I don’t know if I’d be good company that night.”

“Oh?”

Draco lifted a shoulder. “Well, I’d be downright furious the moment he touched you. Sort of puts a damper on things.”

“There is that, yes.” Harry could tell Draco wanted to ask. His mind kept shifting between answers. Yes, he would be furious too if someone else’s hands made it onto Draco’s body. No, he would not be furious, because Draco was a stunning, vibrant, sexual man who enjoyed sex and looked amazing doing it. Yes, because Draco opened up for _him_ , not anyone else, and he didn’t own Draco or his choices, and that made it, the two of them, all the more concrete. And rare. He not only had sex with Draco, he loved Draco, and seeing less, witnessing the sweat and the writhe, hearing the broken sounds without the emotion that usually coaxed them forth was empty and dismal, and half as lovely. He knew because they’d been there.

No, because he wanted to watch Draco in the throes of sex, shuddering and clutching and then spent. He wanted to see what Draco looked like in that moment, all at once, from outside of it.

“You’re thinking of Warren,” Draco observed.

“We’ve both been with him,” Harry said. Draco nodded thoughtfully.

“Well, first. There’d have to be no question. We’d both have to agree.”

“Yes.”

“On the third man.” Draco nodded to himself again. “The sex itself. Everything.”

“Agreed.”

“Have to take the timing into account, too.” Draco’s brow knit as if he were tackling a particularly daunting problem that had just come across his desk at work. 

“Logistically speaking, it could be fun.” Harry raised his brows at Draco for confirmation, and Draco murmured agreement. Harry took Draco’s hand and began to play with his fingers, rolling his thumb over the tips and down the lines on his palm. Logistically speaking, it had the potential to fill some holes Harry didn’t like looking at.

“Definitely be fun,” Draco mused from his side of the bed.

Harry cocked his head, gazing at Draco’s hand. He sighed. “I don’t know if this should be looked at logistically, though.”

Draco nodded wordlessly, so Harry went on. “It’s like writing up an agreement, in a way. It all looks good on paper, but in practice, it can be…”

“Different?”

Harry traced a yes on Draco’s palm. Draco rolled his eyes.

“You’re lucky I’m fluent in all manner of Pottery languages, Harry. All right. So. If not logistically, then emotionally.”

“We’re a fairly emotional pair, I think.”

Draco’s brows scrunched together. He stared up at the ceiling. Harry could tell he was thinking carefully. “All right. Here’s the question, and answer me truthfully. Look at our bed right now, not me, but at our bed, and tell me if you could see it the same way after a third person has been in it.”

Harry wound his fingers with Draco’s. “Well, of course it wouldn’t be the same. No way it could be.”

“Point.” Draco rearranged their fingers until he could wave Harry’s hand back and forth in an arc over the mattress. “But would it be different in a good way?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said. 

“Of course, there are ways to get around that.” Draco smirked. “There are always luxury motel suites.”

Harry laughed. “Yes, only you would need a luxury suite for this.”

“I prefer to debauch myself in comfort, thank you.”

“Doesn’t sound half bad, actually.” Harry smiled and pressed a kiss to Draco’s knuckles. He let a few seconds of silence go by. “Okay. Could you look at me the same way, then?”

Draco did look at him, really studied him. His face, his body, the way their hands linked. Harry let Draco’s gaze climb over him, up and down, watching Draco’s face the whole time. He saw the grimace as soon as it appeared.

“I’m not…” Draco tried again. “I don’t think so.” He breathed in. “But who knows? I don’t work in absolutes, and neither do you. With the right person, it might not be a bad thing.”

“I think I’d be okay at first,” Harry said softly. “Because I’d convince myself of it. But later I think that would change.”

Draco’s eyes sought his out. “I know I’d be jealous later. Really bloody jealous.”

Harry sighed. “And resentful. Yeah.”

“Harry, what’s this about?”

Harry considered brushing it off as a whim, which it was. Only it was also more than that. Draco would let it go if he cocked it up to a bad job, and they could get on with their evening. But he made the mistake of meeting Draco’s eyes again, and then he knew the words wouldn’t sit right with him unless he let them out.

“I know there are things I can’t do for you,” he said, holding Draco’s gaze. Stroking Draco’s hand. “Things I can’t be. And I don’t want us to just settle for that if we don’t need to. If there’s something we can conceivably do to solve the problem.”

Draco rolled over until he was resting halfway on top of Harry, their joined hands pressed into the mattress beneath him. “First off, it’s not a problem, Harry. No, listen, I’m being honest with you. It isn’t a problem. It’s one thing out of a thousand. A million. And what I’m getting in return, or rather who I’m getting, is worth more than that one thing could ever be. You, Harry Potter, are not asking me to settle. I want to be with you and all that that entails. And I want you to want to be with me.”

“God, do you even have to ask?” Harry found Draco’s lips and kissed them. Draco kissed him back for a few moments and then pulled away. 

“Harry, do you want someone else?”

“Only you,” Harry said.

“Do you need someone else? And be honest with yourself about this.”

“No. You’re the only one I need. And I do. Need you and want you, and… everything.”

Draco kissed him again. “The feeling is mutual. So let’s say that at this point, a threesome isn’t in either of our best interests, even if it is with a ravishing and multitalented sex god like Warren Monroe.”

Harry snorted, then leered. “Hmm, but when you put it that way…”

Draco pushed him flat on his back and straddled him, kissing him into silence. “One more word out of that filthy mouth and I will shag you straight through this bed and down into the kitchen.”

“Sex god,” Harry snickered.

“You asked for it, Potter.” Draco stripped Harry of his shirt and got down to business.

~tbc~


	20. Leave and Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No summary

“So, what time tomorrow?”

Draco glanced up as Harry came out of the bathroom with his toothbrush in his mouth. “Some hideous hour that I do not care to name. Ever.”

Harry popped the toothbrush out and pointed it at Draco. “Before six, then.” He disappeared back into the bathroom and the rush of water in the sink drowned out Draco’s sigh.

“Potter. We do not speak of it in this house.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Harry shut off the sink and then the bathroom light. He padded into the bedroom, bare feet shuffling over the carpet, one hand scratching at his belly. He stopped short and stretched up on his toes, yawning wide. His fingertips brushed the ceiling and he almost toppled over. “Salazar, that’s good. So. You gonna miss me?”

Draco smirked. He shuffled down on the bed and Harry resumed his approach, grinning that lazy grin that always ticked away right at the base of Draco’s spine. “Sorry, who are you again?”

Harry dropped into bed next to him, pulling the duvet down so he could slide under. Draco watched him, both arms cocked behind his head. The duvet slid against his knees. The feeling was quite agreeable.

Harry looked over at him. His brow furrowed. “You’re wearing a shirt.”

Draco shrugged. “Coming on winter. Room’s colder.”

Harry’s mouth curved. He grabbed a handful of the covers and lobbed them back, shoving them the rest of the way off the bed with his foot. He rolled over and settled himself on spread knees with Draco’s legs between. Harry tucked both thumbs into Draco’s waistband and eased his boxers down an inch, rubbing small circles into the newly revealed hollows of his hips. He bent and pressed his lips against the skin just under Draco’s navel.

“Like the shirt,” Harry murmured. He smiled up at Draco, teeth gleaming. Draco kept his arms raised and watched as Harry’s hands slid under the hem of said shirt, up his sides to his chest. The shirt hitched over Harry’s forearms. “Of course, I’m going to take it off you now.”

One palm lingered unhurriedly over Draco’s nipple. Draco breathed and dropped his hand down over Harry’s, the material of his shirt thin between their fingers. Harry continued to fondle his chest as he bent to the right and kissed Draco’s hip. Sucked a small area of skin for a lengthy moment.

“I want to take a vacation with you,” Harry murmured. His voice sounded a tiny bit slurred, and the words shivered against Draco’s hip.

“Sounds nice,” Draco managed. He could feel the bittersweet bruising of his skin beneath Harry’s tongue. Then Harry lifted his head.

“Not for work.” Harry’s thumb found the hickey and rubbed, sending the warm ache deeper. “Just you and me.”

Draco bit his lip as his nipple began to tingle under Harry’s administrations. All he could do was nod. Harry left his hips, crawling up on his knees and sliding the shirt purposefully upward. Draco let each arm go lax as Harry worked the sleeves free. The collar came over his head with a single tug, leaving his hair out of place. Harry’s eyes darted; he bent and took Draco’s mouth in a graceless kiss. “You.”

“Me, what?”

“So hot.” Harry pressed his lips just at the juncture beneath Draco’s jaw and laved it with his tongue, sucking and licking. Draco felt a rush of blood, the hazy heat of suction and slick urgency. He inhaled, forcing the counterpart to his body’s climb. Sweat broke out across his throat. Something settled near his ear, a lump of listing heat. He turned his head and found his shirt crumpled into a ball, Harry’s fingers a taut fist around it. 

He slid one hand over Harry’s nape and stroked with his fingers. “You know, we did just move in.”

“Mmm, I remember.”

Draco flicked Harry on the ear. “House might take offense if we up and leave her so fast.”

Harry lifted his head. “So our house is female now?”

Draco shrugged. “Only healthy to have a little bit of oestrogen in any relationship.”

Harry snorted. “I have it on excellent authority that _you_ don’t like oestrogen.”

“Not when it’s shagging me, Godric, no.” Draco grabbed Harry’s face and hauled him up for a messy kiss, then pushed him back down. “No, bring on the testosterone. And make it horny as hell and bloody impatient.”

The bite Harry gave his ribs was going to leave a mark.

Draco stretched his arms overhead and arched his back into Harry’s ministrations, absolutely loving the shivers that skated up, down, through him. They played on each other, each one gathering more strength until he was beyond controlling them; he slumped back down, breathing through his teeth, as Harry worked his way over his body like a ravenous dragon.

Harry’s tongue traced over his belly in slow, thorough arcs, hot one minute, leaving behind a cold wake the next. Draco shuddered, wove his hands through Harry’s hair and out again, and did not try to guess where his lover was headed. The energy radiating off Harry tonight was slightly unfamiliar. Not unknown, but… a different flavor from the norm. 

Draco liked it.

* * *

The room was full of shadows, made deep by the lamp’s solitary light. Draco bent and brushed Harry’s fringe back. He pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead. “Harry?”

Outside, the sky was just blooming into lush purple, deep blues. Harry’s head turned on the pillow.

“Harry.” Draco kissed his mouth this time, lingering. And again. “I’ve got to go.”

Harry’s hand came up and settled on Draco’s wrist. He made an incoherent sound. Might have been a _why?_

“Potions conference in Kent, remember?”

“Lies,” Harry groaned, face scrunching under the light of the bedside lamp. “All lies…”

Draco kissed Harry again as his lover stirred; he deepened it until it was less than decent, and finally drew away.

Harry sighed. “Cruel and unusual.”

“You’re telling me,” Draco muttered, grimacing at the clock. He left the bedside, but stopped at the door and turned, smiling. “See you in a few days.”

“Stay safe,” Harry mumbled, sounding halfway back to sleep.

* * *

“So,” Draco said, pushing his hair back. He had the beginnings of a splitting headache and it was only two in the afternoon. The light was even beginning to hurt his eyes. “How’s the homestead?”

Harry’s face wavered in the fireplace. He cocked his head to the side, brows drawing together. “Draco, you look terrible.”

“You remember that whole part where I was coming home on Sunday?”

Harry groaned. “What have you done now?”

Draco massaged his forehead with his fingers. “Oh, you know me. Just too much of a bloody teacher’s pet. Again.”

Harry tsked. “Overachiever. Hey, seriously, though. You all right?”

“Just a headache.” Harry gave him a look and Draco huffed. “I _promise_. Look, they want me to stay an extra three days, go over the newest proposed alterations to healing and sleeping potions. Work’s already cleared it. I wanted to let you know not to expect me till Wednesday.”

Harry’s sigh was audible. “Okay. Look, don’t forget to get some sleep, yeah? You don’t look so good. No more petting the teacher.”

Draco snorted. “Oh, there’s an image.”

“Hey.” Harry’s expression became earnest. “Love you.”

Draco smiled. “You too.”

“See you in a few more days.”

* * *

Something banged and Draco jumped, jerking himself awake. He wasn’t sure what it had been— could have bloody well dreamt it anyway and besides, his wards were up and there wasn’t anyone who could get through except—

He blinked and rolled over onto his back. A yawn forced itself up, bending his voice into near incoherency. “Harry?”

“Yep.” The inn bed creaked as the human-shaped shadow sat down on it. But Draco could smell Harry’s cologne now, faint as it was. A hand touched down soothingly on Draco’s upturned wrist. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Dropped my bag.”

Draco nodded blankly, then made himself pay attention. It was only Monday. “Wait. Did you come directly from work?”

“No choice,” Harry’s low voice came. “If I’d gone home, I would’ve passed out on the couch. Figured here was better.”

“Merlin. I think I adore you, Potter.” Draco gripped Harry’s shirt sleeve and tugged him down until he had his lover’s mouth on his. He kissed Harry lazily, then again. Again, tiny, soft pecks to Harry’s lips. “Mm, c’mere.”

Harry slid onto the mattress beside him, pulling the covers over himself. Draco shifted until he was facing Harry and looped an arm around his waist. He burrowed closer, tangling their legs together.

“Hey.” Harry batted his shoulder lightly. “Plenty of bed, you know.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Draco murmured. He felt warm and drowsy, almost on the edge of sleep again. “Mattress is cold. Like that one in Burford when I came out to meet you.”

“That bed was plenty warm. Especially with us in it.” Harry chuckled. “That’s what you were thinking about?”

Draco shrugged one shoulder. “One of my favourite recollections. Just fond of it. It was a nice room.”

Harry rubbed his arm. “It was tiny.”

“Yes, and you were very close to me. Best part.”

Harry kissed the top of his head and let out the deep sigh he always gave when he was settled. “Didn’t feel like waiting for Wednesday.”

“Impatient.” Draco nuzzled Harry’s chest and felt himself begin to drift.

Harry’s murmur of _good thing, too_ was the last thing he heard.

~tbc~


	21. An Imperfect Host

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The funny thing about this one is that it was initially from Hermione's POV. But it just wasn't fitting. Which makes sense, actually, and Draco has plenty of fun with it anyway.

Sod Potter. Draco ran a hand through his hair. Again. And it wouldn’t be the last time, surely. He had to stop pacing. It only brought him within view of the clock more often.

Ought to Floo the arse and make him come home on time, and then go up to their room and finish that Muggle book with clocks that struck thirteen, like he’d been meaning to. What an opening line that had been; if his clock struck thirteen, half four might never come and he could avoid all of this.

Draco went out the back door and stepped down onto the grass. He could pull those weeds. Get something done before the sun went down. Godric Almighty, was he wanting to _weed a garden_ rather than answer the front door? It wasn’t even a proper garden. He half-knelt, then got up again, afraid of the dirt grinding into the knees of his trousers, and that’s when he heard the knock on the front door.

What was he supposed to say to her? Did she even know about him? Draco strode through the house on shaky legs. She had no right to be judgmental about him, them, or the house or—

She’d be judgmental, though, wouldn’t she? This was about Harry, after all. 

He was conscious of the wrinkles in his shirt, the bareness of his feet. The state of his stupid hair. “ _My_ bloody home,” he muttered and checked himself. But what was the use of hoping he hadn’t been overheard? It was done either way and he was out of time.

He didn’t bother with the peephole, just opened the door.

Hermione Granger blinked at him from the doorstep. “Malfoy.”

He couldn’t read her tone. She didn’t look surprised as much as wary. Draco nodded and cursed Harry again for not being here on time. “Granger.”

She peered around as if searching for something and Draco felt his shoulders stiffen up. Salazar, he was standing in the front door of his own house, feeling like a bloody outsider, like he was nineteen all over again, just starting this whole thing, and she—

“I’m sorry, let’s do this again. Hello, Draco.” Granger looked right at him, smiled, and stuck out her hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

The relief was swift, but Draco was slow as he reached, grasped her hand and shook. “Hello, Hermione.”

She cleared her throat. “I don’t mean to interrupt your day. I was supposed to meet Harry here. For tea. You see, we’ve been Owling.”

Draco pictured Harry quilling a letter, ink all over his fingertips. He stepped back, catching his heel on the rug. “I know, and he’s late again. Come in. I’ll Floo him.” 

He preceded her down the hall. At least the house was presentable: he hadn’t left his papers strewn all over the sitting room. He wasn’t being a good host at all. Should offer tea, a place to sit, not stomp off to Floo his bloody lover. Draco nearly fumbled the bowl of Floo powder before he managed to ignite a fire and toss it in. He directed the connection to Harry’s office with a minimum of throat-clearing. It felt like it took forever to connect.

“Yes, hello, it’s that time, Potter.” Draco tried to sound bland. Harry’s face appeared in the fireplace. His hair looked as if he’d been pulling at it as well.

“Yeah, I know, don’t let her leave, I’ll be home in one second! Bloody meetings.”

“One,” Draco said flatly. Harry muttered something and withdrew. Draco doused the fire with a wave of his hand. When he turned around, he found Granger in the doorway. He couldn’t help the heat that swept his cheeks.

“You’ve a lovely home,” she said, gesturing. She looked skittish. “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve left my shoes in the hall.”

Draco eyed her bare feet— below tailored work suit, no less— but couldn’t think what to say to that. “He’ll be back in a tick. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Water, I think.”

Might have been a smile on his own face there; hard to tell without a mirror. “Come on through. Kitchen’s this way.”

She followed without comment and took a seat at the table while Draco filled a glass at the tap. He looked at the water and felt like it wasn’t enough of an offering. He transfigured some of it into ice cubes. And then he realized he hadn’t asked if she wanted ice. It wasn’t exactly hot out.

But she took the glass and drank deeply from it before thanking him. Draco sat down at the other end of the table and they looked around each other in silence.

“Are you still with Montmorice Potions?” she finally asked. It didn’t _sound_ judgmental. Draco tried on another smile.

“Yes. I tried to leave, but Magda Montmorice told me it would only happen after she was dead and gone.”

Granger laughed outright, startling him. “Oh, you never tried to leave, Draco Malfoy, you love that company.”

The comment could have been too forward, but strangely, it wasn’t. Draco felt himself relaxing instead. “It’s been good to me.”

“And you to it.” Granger would have had a lot of contact with Montmorice Potions. She had to correspond with them as part of her job with the Department of Magical Education. That is, if she was still with the department. He ought to ask, but he couldn’t organize the words. She’d once said she’d made up her mind that students would have the most up-to-date potions instruction or she’d march into Hogwarts, kick the professor out, and teach them herself.

Draco didn’t doubt it.

“Thank you.” For a moment, he was transported back to the beginning, before he and Harry had begun to fall apart the first time, when he’d just been cultivating a friendship with Hermione Granger. The absence of that bizarre non-relationship niggled at him in a way it hadn’t for years.

She’d changed, obviously. Her hair was longer, a little more tamed than it used to be, and something indefinable had altered in her face, bridging the gap between childhood and adulthood. But sod him if he could tell what it was, exactly. Maybe around the cheekbones or in the slope of her jaw. Or her eyes. He wondered how he looked to her.

He cleared his throat again. “How— How’s Ron?”

She smiled. “He’s just fine, thank you for asking.” He thought she’d subside and leave them where they started, but she took another sip of water and went on. “He’s expanding his brother’s business. Opening up a new shop in Northumbria.”

“That would be his… third, then?”

“Fourth,” Granger corrected mildly. “There’s a smaller branch on the other end of Diagon. Just a hole in the wall, really. Goodness knows how it pays for itself, but I guess jokes never get old.”

If she caught his discomfort, she didn’t indicate it. Draco looked down at his hands. Four shops. He hadn’t known. He would have, if he’d kept in touch with Granger while he and Harry weren’t— But then, he hadn’t been in any state for strengthening old connections, had he?

The Floo burst into life in the sitting room and Draco heard Harry slapping soot from his clothing. “I’m here, I’m sorry! Sorry. Got held up at work.”

Granger rose just as Harry came into the kitchen. He grinned, dropped his briefcase, and pulled her into a hug that lifted her off the floor. “Hermione, finally! It’s great to see you!” His laugh filled the room. Draco got to his feet more slowly and stood watching them, relieved at no longer being the focus of attention.

Until Harry finished with his greetings and put Granger down. “I’ll put the kettle on.” He crossed to the other side of the table and pressed a heady kiss to Draco’s mouth. “Hi,” Harry murmured, lips tipped up in a smile. 

“Hi.”

Harry pecked him on the lips once more, then went for the kettle. “Hermione, what kind of tea would you like? There are biscuits in the pantry, I’ll get them in a tick.”

Draco decided it was time to make his escape. “I’ll leave you to it, shall I?” He thumbed over his shoulder in the direction of the stairs. “Got something to finish up.”

Harry turned away from the teapot. “No, you could stay. Have some tea?”

Granger looked at him in the same expectant manner. Draco shook his head. “Love to, but there’s potions research needs doing.”

“Oh, god, I didn’t keep you too, did I?” Harry looked pained. He smiled sheepishly at Granger. “I’m ruining everyone’s day.”

Draco shook his head. “No, I’d meant to do it this afternoon anyway.”

“Serves you right for bringing it home,” Harry said, chuckling.

“Should know better, I know.” Draco took Granger’s hand in his once more. “It’s good to see you again, Hermione.”

“Likewise.” The shine in her eyes said she meant it.

Draco took his tea upstairs to the study. He opened the window for some fresh air, sat down at the desk, and set to the task of reading the latest analyses concerning monkshood and Re’em blood. He had until Friday to finish a report on further testing for the Minister of Magic, but as yet he hadn’t seen much to suggest that the combination of the two substances would result in anything other than a horrendous explosion.

Two hours later, he was no further than twenty pages in and feeling rather chilled.

Draco slapped the parchment down on the desk for good and leaned back. Being an idiot, that’s what he was doing. He and Harry were solid; hell, they’d purchased a bloody house together. And yet Draco felt like he’d been thrown back to those very first fumbling months when he and Harry were just finding their way around each other’s bodies and Draco held his breath every time Harry saw his friends, half-certain they’d convince Harry to hold out for someone… more to the group standard. Not that Granger or Weasley had ever said such a thing in his company. But Draco couldn’t help where his imagination went when given too much time to itself.

He got to his feet and stretched both arms over his head. Popped his back. Shut the window and cast a warming charm on the room. What Harry and Granger said downstairs over tea was their business, and Draco was adult enough to let it be. Of course Granger would be concerned. Draco was painfully aware of his previous failures. Whatever Granger said to Harry (and Draco wasn’t going to ask), it would stem from legitimate anxiety.

This was unsettling him more than he’d anticipated. He should have grabbed something stronger than tea to drink.

He made up his mind to go downstairs, root through the refrigerator and start dinner. But in the time it took him to organise the files he’d laid out on the desk, footsteps pounded up the stairs. A second later, Harry entered the room.

“Hey.” He shuffled barefoot across the carpet and slung his arms around Draco. Draco had to shift his weight to keep from being unbalanced. Harry rubbed a hand back and forth through Draco’s hair. “Think I could make it frizz out?”

Draco heard Harry’s foot scrubbing further at the carpet. “Watch it, Potter, or no sex.”

Harry shrugged. “On the contrary. Might make the sex electrifying.”

“It’s electrifying enough, thank you.” But Draco leaned into Harry’s embrace, urging him as close as he could without seeming too obvious. “You’re in a good mood.”

Harry pulled back, his grin wide. “Haven’t seen her in years, feels like.”

“How is she?” His question sounded pretty normal. Surprise, surprise.

“Really good. Did I tell you she and Ron got engaged?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, Harry, when she Owled about it two months ago.”

“Right, right.” Harry kissed Draco full on the mouth. “Just exciting, you know? Mm. Hold still.”

He wasn’t about to argue, but… “Why?” 

“Want my proper day’s hug. Withdrawal’s an ugly thing.”

Draco laughed. “You know what? I like having you around.”

“No kidding?” Harry squeezed him tighter. “Sounds like old news.”

“Still good news.” Draco nuzzled his nose against Harry’s ear.

“Mm. You want dinner? I’m starving.”

“Even after you finished off all the Jaffa cakes?”

“What? I never— How did you know?”

“I can taste them on you. Hear the echo of their tiny cries for mercy.” Draco caught Harry’s face in his hands and kissed him again searchingly. “Hm, yes, you’re guilty.”

Harry growled and turned the chiding into another, harder kiss. “Quiet. And stop that.”

“What?”

“Distracting me. I won’t be distracted from food.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself, Harry.”

~tbc~


	22. The Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco receives a flattering proposition.

For the fourth time that night, Draco noticed the same man’s eyes alight upon him from across the roomful of well-dressed bodies, and the owner of those eyes wasn’t Harry. Though Harry had looked his way from time to time, grinning that half-smile that showed off his teeth before returning to whatever conversation was at hand. Black suited Harry; it leant elongation to his already good posture, and the robes curved their way lovingly over his shoulders. He’d let Draco toss his hair into haphazard spikes and tease it about the nape of his neck until it fell into gentle waves. White cuffs peering from beneath the supple sleeves of his robe— Draco knew they were more than supple; it had taken him one or two tries to button them without Harry’s mouth finding its way to his— perfectly framed hands whose tan was brought forth by the sheer contrast.

Gods, he was delightful to look at. Draco grinned and sipped his wine.

Celebratory dinners were not his favourite way to spend his evenings, but he’d been to far worse such dinners. The one four years back celebrating Mortimer Bubblyton the Third, the extremely ancient and forgetful philanthropist of disenfranchised goblins (who, as Draco remembered it, didn’t want his help anyway), came to mind as the single most excruciating experience of his post-war existence. And he hadn’t even had Harry to accompany him back then, which, in retrospect, made things doubly infuriating.

Draco caught green eyes again and lifted his chin in acknowledgement as Harry rolled those eyes toward the offensive grandfather clock taking up half of the hall’s western wall. Much too early to escape, and Harry knew it. Still, it was a pleasant thought.

Draco accepted a salutation from a well-dressed dowager with an honest-to-Godric golden monocle— some friend of some family somewhere— and then let his gaze drift, linger, and finally settle on the only person in the room who was brave enough to stare right at him and not bear the last name of Potter. Draco allowed himself a squint as the man altered his direction of travel in his favour.

Yes, the man’s attention was definitely fixed on him. Draco waited as he approached, pondering the potential slight to his evening.

“Draco Malfoy, I think?” American accent, East Coast. Draco’s curiosity gained ground, but only enough to keep his drink hand politely at rest by his side.

“And you are?”

The man had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, the colour of spirit fire. He was older, at least early forties, and looked comfortable in both his willowy frame and the pinstriped suit in which it was clothed. “It’s a pleasure,” he said, extending a hand and a toothy smile. “My name is Maxwell LaSalle.”

That arrested Draco’s drink once again with more gusto. “LaSalle Pharmaceuticals?”

“You flatter me. I’d hoped to be the one impressing you with my foreknowledge.”

Draco studied the man in front of him with renewed interest. “Difficult not to know of your enterprise in my circles.”

“Well, I’m having a hard time believing my luck, actually. It’s not often one is invited to the same sortie as the person to whom one is specifically hoping to speak.”

Draco eyed him, choosing the less presumptuous of two topics. “Luck, is it?”

LaSalle’s eyes glittered cannily. “You can forgive me for engineering my own fate in this case. Your potions firm is the most well-known in the country, and just as highly lauded internationally.”

“As it should be.” Draco raised his eyebrow at the expectant look he received. “I’m hardly about to be coy about something that has earned its fame, Mr LaSalle. If you’re here to bandy decorum about—” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” LaSalle interrupted. “I’m well aware of the praise your firm deserves. As you are most likely aware, yours is a sister company to mine, and to several others in Europe and Africa. Part of the Mutual Aid Act. I find it particularly advantageous in terms of medical progress. I’ve never stood with those who would rather exercise competition than sense in the face of disease. Fortunately, your director agrees, and thus we have an excellent relationship.” 

Draco nodded. LaSalle’s smile was much more guileless than most businessmen’s. It was refreshing. 

LaSalle continued in the same straightforward manner. “Having the proper connections and the opportunity to see the results of your work in particular, Mr Malfoy, I have her permission to make you an offer.”

Draco tilted his head. “What sort of offer?”

“We’ve found it is very beneficial to both countries to… exchange more than ideas from time to time. To exchange the minds _behind_ those ideas, as it were. You have long been in our sights for your accomplishments in the field of potions manufacture and development. LaSalle Pharmaceuticals would benefit greatly from your presence in its upper echelons.” He met Draco’s gaze squarely. “Is that something you might be interested in?”

Draco lifted his chin. The room felt smaller. Quieter. “For how long?”

“That really depends on you. We would ask officially for two years. But I am personally going to ask for as long as you can stand us. Mr Malfoy, you are an incomparable asset to the potions business. I would be honoured to offer you a permanent position with our company.”

Draco took a careful sip of his wine and swirled it over his tongue. “Based in Rhode Island, are you?”

“In the Wizarding district of Providence, yes.” LaSalle nodded. “We have a significant amount of agricultural land at our disposal in the countryside of New York state, and branch laboratories up and down the East Coast. You would have your pick of location.”

“Well, I should think Providence itself,” Draco answered. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

LaSalle smiled. “No doubt you want to check up on this with your director.”

“No doubt.”

“Let me assure you that we have no desire to deprive your firm of your expertise. Our company agreement states very clearly that all studies, conclusions, and advancements are to be shared between companies for the improvement of both. We’d just welcome the chance to have you with us directly.”

Draco hummed softly. Swirled his wine flute between his fingers. “A tempting offer, Mr LaSalle. I appreciate your bestowing it upon me.”

“It is entirely my pleasure. Please don’t feel pressured to make a decision now. I’m willing to give you all the time you require. If I can assist you with further information, feel free to contact me directly.”

“I’ll have to speak to my partner,” Draco said, curious whether LaSalle would choose a professional or personal inference.

“Please do,” the man answered immediately. “Accommodations in Providence are more than enough for two.”

Well. Perhaps he’d done the proper research after all.

* * *

Draco stretched his arms as far as he could reach, relishing the cool slick of sweat on his skin. “Merlin, open that window.”

Harry straightened up with an effort and waved his hand in the direction of said window. It flew open with a bang and fresh air rushed into the room, teasing Draco’s skin. He sighed. Harry leaned back over him, crawling up his body and coaxing Draco into a luxuriant kiss.

It was many seconds before Draco felt he’d had enough. He released Harry’s mouth with a drowsy grin. Harry smirked back at him and then bent further to plant an open-mouthed kiss on Draco’s chest. “Glad I don’t have to go in for work tomorrow.”

“ _I’m_ glad you badgered them into some time off.” Draco tucked a damp strand of hair behind Harry’s ear. “I was beginning to think you’d let them send you to de-curse the entire Hebrides if they asked.”

“Good luck to them,” Harry sighed, “when I’ve got this waiting at home.” He kissed the bridge of Draco’s nose and moved over, dropping down onto his belly. Draco pondered the advantages of boxers— his were somewhere on the staircase banister, he suspected— and then huffed the idea aside and stretched again, arching. Harry watched him, head propped on one hand and a small smile curving his lips.

“You must have had a good evening. Or are you going starkers for my benefit?”

“Do you feel benefited?” Draco parried. Harry’s grin widened. Draco tugged his pillow into its proper place beneath his head. “The evening was tolerable. Not nearly so many prats tripping me up with their scuttling.”

“Got to speak to Minerva,” Harry said. “She’s commissioned another wing to be built onto Hogwarts. They’ve had to reassign dormitory space. I’d no idea the influx of exchange students had got so high. They’ve got four from Singapore alone.”

Draco swung his head to look at Harry. “I never doubted your fame would result in spectacular things for that school. They all want to lie in your four-poster, I’m sure. Smell the great Boy Who Lived. Fondle his drapery.”

“Watch it. I might start some fondling of my own.”

“Oh, horrors.” Draco smirked. The night air whisked through the room. He could see the backs of Harry’s thighs rippling into gooseflesh, and reached down to smooth over the skin there. “Got an interesting offer tonight.”

“Do I need to get out the mace?”

“Maxwell LaSalle,” Draco said, giving Harry a glare for his trouble. “You know. The potions and pharmaceuticals franchise in the States.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Heard of them. That’s amazing, I’d no idea that event pulled in such big names.”

“Aside from you?” Draco bantered. Harry flicked his shoulder. Draco relaxed back onto the bed. “As it happens, they’ve offered me a position. Sister companies, foreign exchange and all that rubbish. Suffice it to say, they want me to go to work for them.”

Harry’s hand traced languidly over his chest. “LaSalle came to the dinner specifically to ask you?”

“I think he did.”

“That’s quite the recognition.” Harry’s hand kept its steady movement. “What’s the offer?”

“Listen to this nonsense, they’re footing the housing bill. Now _that_ I find enthralling all on its own. Providence is not cheap.”

“Very tempting. Did he say who you’d be working with?”

Draco pursed his lips. “Only their best and brightest. And there will be twice as much hands-on potions making as they offer me here. LaSalle’s willing to up the ante as high as I’d like it. Rather a powerful feeling, that. I’ve half a mind to ask for domesticated Grindylows just to see if he bites.”

“I’d think you deserve the esteem,” Harry said simply. “How many contracts have you locked down and followed through to the bitter end? How many of this country’s newest medical potions have your skills to thank?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Flattery will get you nothing you haven’t had already, Potter. A hundred times already, at least.”

“That’ll be just fine.” Harry’s voice slipped toward laughter. He shifted onto his side and sobered again. “Did he say how long they would contract you for? Hypothetically speaking.”

“Two years or more. If I’d like to stay. And they’ll let me go over whenever I fancy.”

“Mmm. You sure this man wasn’t really some sort of imp bargaining for your soul?” Harry grinned. “So. What do you think?”

Draco shrugged. “Not an offer you get more than once. And… I admit, I like the idea of hands-on again.”

“Thought you might think that.” 

Draco shrugged. “Maybe if it weren’t so far away.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Said I wanted to talk to you,” Draco said offhandedly. But he couldn’t help glancing over. Harry’s face was hard to read in the light.

“I hear they’ve got superb facilities,” he said presently. “The prestige would be fantastic for you.”

“Hm,” Draco murmured noncommittally. 

“They could easily put you up into the top lists of potions makers in the world. They’ve the means to do it.”

“And the referential power,” Draco added, looking at the ceiling. “Between them and my current employers, I could practically go into business for myself. How very happily ever after it would all be.”

Harry nodded slowly. His eyes never quite left Draco’s. Draco looked back at him for the time it took to draw a breath. Then he grinned. “But that’s enough professionalism for tonight. I’d rather nurse my ego and the extravagant swelling it’s taken by shagging you further into sleep deprivation. If it’s all the same to you.”

Harry snorted and responded with a kiss that involved lots of tongue and was over far too quickly for Draco’s tastes. He reached up and tugged Harry back down almost as soon as he’d risen, silencing any words that might have been waiting. “Later. Tell me later what you think.”

Harry nodded and moved down from Draco’s lips over his throat and chest. And kept going.

* * *

The following morning was spent, by Draco at least, flat on his back pleasantly ignoring anything that didn’t have to do with Harry’s steady breathing and occasional attentive snogging when he drifted into wakefulness. Eventually there was more than snogging, quite a bit more, and then a shower that involved wandering, soapy hands and claiming Harry’s mouth at the exact moment of coming. It was something Draco could say he never grew tired of. It felt deliciously desperate, more than satisfying.

Harry left the house in loose jeans and a polo shirt, and came back with croissants and ripe peaches. Draco then left the house irately with intent to get coffee too, but turned around only halfway down the block and came back. Harry knocked him down on the couch and got his black jumper filthy with chocolate croissant crumbs, handed him a peach, and then licked the juice from his lips. 

The afternoon found Draco half asleep on the couch, snugged on his side with his head on Harry’s stomach and one of Harry’s jeaned legs bent between him and the couch cushions. Harry changed channels on the telly until he found a program on great white sharks and watched it avidly, his breathing a comfortable hush in Draco’s ears, right up till the moment when his stomach growled and shot Draco upright completely.

They had dinner on the back patio, barefoot, sitting on the stoop with plates of spaghetti cradled between their knees. The sun set. There were croissants left over for dessert.

The night was a late one due to Draco’s nap and Harry’s somnolence, and then the morning after took Harry back to work again.

* * *

The firm’s director found him leafing through a kilometer-high stack of addendums to a local potion supplier’s insurance policy. She apologised for the interruption and took the seat across from his desk. She sedately crossed her legs and handed him a packet of information.

“Let me be the first to congratulate you.”

Draco spelled the insurance policy aside and took the papers she offered. “Was this your doing, Magda?”

She laughed. “I recommended those whom I saw as most fit. And most deserving. But it was no trouble, as he was already asking after you.”

Draco smiled, coming across a wordy mock-up contract in the top half of the pile, following a neatly lettered offer of position. “Is the contract legitimate?”

“Absolutely. Read it for yourself. I have never been blindsided by Max or any of his subordinates. And the personnel he lets us borrow are incredibly diligent and reliable. It is, truly, a worthwhile exchange.”

“I most definitely intend to read through everything,” Draco acknowledged. Magda’s smile widened almost tenderly, the wrinkled corners of her eyes gaining even more depth. She tapped a finger on the edge of the papers and leaned back in her chair. The whiteness of her teeth set her amber skin glowing. 

“Tell me, then. Am I going to lose you to the wilds of America?”

Draco returned her gaze with feigned innocence. “Magda, how dare you. As if I could make such a decision in so brief a time.”

“If it’s a good decision, I wouldn’t harbour any illusions of hesitation. It’s all there for your perusal. I even had the solicitors downstairs look it over. The deal is sound, the accommodations yours in a mere month upon acceptance, unless you’d prefer later. They’ll pay you in American currency equivalent to what you make in British Galleons. More, if I’m any judge of Max’s sentiments.” 

“Salazar, but he does know how to bargain.”

“He knows what he stands to gain. As I know what I stand to lose.” She stood and leaned over to lay a hand on his shoulder. “Congratulations, Draco. And remember, no hard feelings if you choose not to accept. We all have lives and priorities.”

“Thank you, Magda,” Draco said, looking up at her. She grinned full out and left his office, pulling the door shut behind her.

Draco got home later than he would have liked, but it was less irksome for the thoughts crowding his brain. Harry, for his part, arrived home too late to do anything except fall soundly into bed beside him without even turning on the light. His warmth was a welcome presence, the arm that pressed between them bearing Harry’s scent and dream-twitches. 

Draco did not sleep; he switched on his own light around two and read the contract and the LaSalle Pharmaceuticals handbook cover to cover, then went back and, after a brief hesitation, began spelling phrases and notes into relief in the margins of each document. It was nearly six, dawn’s pink gleam edging over the blankets, when Harry stirred and rolled out of the deep sleep that had stilled him all night long.

He rubbed his face and picked up the contract where it lay between them, holding it close to his face. “This it?”

Draco ticked another note concerning salary onto the sheet of parchment he’d summoned for the purpose. “Example of it.”

Harry read through it silently, pausing every so often to yawn. When he finished, he slumped back onto his pillow, hiding his face from Draco’s view. “It looks good.”

Draco glanced at him sidelong. “Yeah?”

For a moment, Harry didn’t answer. Then he shrugged. “I’d sign it,” he murmured sleepily.

Draco frowned down at his notes. Spelled another near the bottom. “I’d like to.”

This time Harry looked at him from under the bend of his elbow by way of one open eye. “Would you?”

Draco put down the parchment and faced him. The words didn’t feel as tentative as he’d expected. “I think so. Yes.”

Harry’s one eye studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded and turned flat onto his back again, tugging at the duvet. “All right.”

Draco frowned at the wall of their bedroom, broken by the open door and the hallway beyond. He tapped his thigh with two fingers. “Would you come with me?”

There was little discernible in Harry’s face except comprehension of the question. They stared at each other for a long time, Draco noting anew the contrast of Harry’s hair on the feather-white pillow, the planes of his jaw and forehead, and the single jagged scar marring the skin of the latter. Finally Draco couldn’t _not_ move. He reached out and folded a hand over Harry’s, a simple squeeze.

“Think about it.”

Harry nodded.

* * *

The next dawn took Harry out of town overnight, to Bath and the Roman ruins there. Draco was left to his office and the abundance of work on his desk, and at home, to the quiet rooms and LaSalle’s tantalising, intimidating stack of papers. He ate curry for dinner and quilled a letter at the kitchen table, not intending to send it to LaSalle, just to know what accepting felt like under his fingers, in his heart and throat.

Between the hours of work and the stretches at home— washing in the shower, lying in bed in the darkness, preparing food for himself in the empty kitchen— it began to grow on him. The desire became more than a thought; it became a welcome weight, curling his lips into a smile when he was inattentive.

The second night, sitting in bed reading, he felt the wards go down and heard the door click open downstairs. The jump in his chest was so unfamiliar that it snagged his breath.

Agonising to realise one wanted two things so very, _very_ badly. 

After the time it took him to scrounge a snack in the kitchen below, Harry came into the bedroom, weary but clean, dropping his bags to the floor and falling on Draco with a barely withheld laugh. Draco tossed his book aside, wrapped his arms around Harry and kissed him until they were both breathless, kissed him again until they were both naked, and then sucked him off slowly and painstakingly there on the bed, crouched between his quivering thighs with their fingers tangled together against the sheets. Harry’s collapse was full-bodied and fervent when it finally came; he pulled Draco up and rubbed him deliberately and intently until he was nothing but a boneless, oxygen-less, thoughtless sprawl atop the duvet. Draco brushed his fringe back with a shaking hand afterward, grinned and was grinned at in return. Harry eased him relentlessly into a ball until he could pull the duvet out from underneath and cover them with it, and told him about his trip.

By the time they fell asleep, Harry hadn’t said one word about America.

* * *

Two days went by.

The elation in Draco’s body began a slow, ominous decline with the passing of each hour.

It was a painful mixture of emotion: the promise of such an opportunity and the knowledge that, but for one thing, he would snatch it up in an instant, against the knowledge that if he did take it at last, it might be without Harry. Harry said nothing of the contract or of Draco’s invitation, though Draco did catch him staring distantly at random objects in their house, slow to answer questions or respond to statements. 

Otherwise, Harry was his same lively, sensual self, bending the kitchen implements to his will and producing fragrant plates of breakfast or dinner. Flicking his hair back off his forehead as he organised untended files across their couch. Sliding Draco out the door with a sure hand at his back, into coats and foggy weather on the way to some venue for lunch or trip to Diagon. Waking Draco with intoxicating kisses in the dim morning hours when no amount of lollygagging would make them late for their respective jobs.

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Draco was glad not to have to think about things.

It was in looking around their home, however, that Draco’s discomfort finally caught up with him. The study downstairs had barely lost its new smell; there was no dust to speak of on any of the pictures lining the mantel in the sitting room. Harry’s simple act of pulling open their dresser drawer to locate his Cannons shirt among Draco’s folded jumpers and vests was jarring. He’d become used to it all after only a few months.

The worst moment came when Draco realised that he didn’t want to tear up the letter he’d drafted to LaSalle. That he might do it in the end, but it would hurt him immensely.

Two years. Harry had waited for him before, if what they had then could be called waiting for each other. The idea was a physical stab into Draco’s innards now; the thought of having had and worked and sacrificed, and for what? To lose it all again. He knew in his bones that he couldn’t face two years without Harry Potter. He wasn’t strong enough for that anymore.

The third night was Friday, and dinner was eaten in the middle of London, a French bistro that boasted savory crepes and tart salads involving apples and bleu cheese. They ate their fill and took a cab home in the chill of the coming night. The house was warm. Draco shrugged off his coat, as talkative as he’d been for the last hour— which was to say, not at all— with Harry a few steps ahead of him, on his way to put their leftovers in the refrigerator. 

Draco made his way upstairs, feeling the late hour more than ever. It was only a minute before Harry joined him. Shoes clunked off, Harry’s to the carpet and Draco’s into the closet. Socks followed. Harry went to the dresser again and Draco watched it all in the mirror while gripping his shirt in one hand, saw Harry remove his watch and jumper.

“So we’re not going to talk about this, then?”

At his words, Harry stopped, still facing the wall. Draco eyed him a second longer and shook his head. He removed his shirt, slapped it until the creases fell straight, then flicked it briskly toward the closet with a wave. He set his wand on the bedside table. “You know, I never thought you were the avoidance type, Harry. Many things, but not that.”

He heard Harry inhale. Draco adjusted his pillow, gave it a punch for good measure, hating a stretch that was only two years, but still an eternity. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry turn to face him.

“I’m coming with you.”

Draco straightened. Harry stood by their dresser, black trousers riding low on his hips. The lamplight gleamed in the strands of his hair. His eyes were fixed unwaveringly on Draco.

“What?” Draco said.

Harry shrugged, one hand drifting out and back in a half-gesture. “I needed a few days to think it through,” he answered softly.

“Harry—” It was hard to voice all his thoughts. Draco came around the bed, frowning. “I didn’t… mean for it to be finalised. I just thought we should discuss it.”

Harry shrugged again. “Not really much to discuss.”

“Yes, there is. Your job, for one.” Draco studied Harry’s face, incredulous. His insides felt numb.

“It’s a damn near perfect opportunity,” Harry said. “You won’t get it again.”

“But you…” Draco sighed and looked around. “You love your work. I can’t just ask you to leave.” Wished he could.

“Curse breaking?” Harry ducked his head and chuckled shortly. “I’ll find more of it there. Hell, I’m Harry Potter. I’ll find just about anything.”

Draco couldn’t speak. There was a deep, steady silence inside him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such a sensation. He looked at Harry and Harry looked back, hands hanging at his sides, shoulders lit gold by the light of the bedside lamps.

“Draco, I’m completely serious. This isn’t a whim. And it’s not to avoid an argument.”

Draco stepped closer, feeling as if he were moving through deep, warm water. Pressing toward some truth. “It’s two years, Harry. That’s what it is. Maybe more.”

“Seven hundred thirty days,” came Harry’s reply. His eyes never left Draco’s. “Maybe more.”

Draco’s heartbeat quickened, an unsteady patter in his chest. He searched for some sort of mask, something that covered up the grief of leaving, of picking up and… going. There was nothing there but Harry’s calm expression, Harry’s liquid green eyes.

“The idea of not going hurts, Draco.” Not even a voice, only a murmur. Harry’s shoulders rose and fell without twitch. “I’ve had three days to realise it. I want you to do this. I want you to experience this, and I want— I want you to reap all the rewards of it.”

“You don’t have to go,” Draco whispered. Harry’s body did tremble this time, the movement of a swiftly drawn breath. His lover smiled at him, that cocky, patient smile that he remembered in and out of his dreams.

“Of course I don’t.”

Draco moved forward, reached out with both hands and placed them on Harry’s trouser-clad hips, fingers touching just where cloth met skin. He stared down at the rise and fall of Harry’s chest, and then slowly, very slowly, knelt on the carpet in front of him. One knee, then the other.

He leaned in, pressed close to Harry’s belly and inhaled the scent of him. Cologne and sweat, skin. His fingers found buttons and popped them loose. Three of them, and by the time he was done, Harry had gone completely still. His hands were hanging in Draco’s view at his sides, wrists lean, slender joints and fingers, blunt at the ends. Draco’s throat closed up; the lump there was fierce.

“Harry,” he managed, and lost the rest.

Harry huffed breathlessly. “Draco. You don’t have to—”

He squeezed Harry’s hips, gripped the waistline of his trousers and eased them down. The soft, pale plane of Harry’s stomach was revealed with its gentle whorl of dark hair. Draco looked up and found Harry watching silently, lips parted. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath.

It was all Draco could do to break that gaze. He slid Harry’s trousers past his hips, letting his fingers linger in their wake. Leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the hollow where the shadows pooled. Harry’s stomach muscles tightened visibly.

Harry was half hard. Draco kissed his hip once more, a tender touch that left Harry trembling. He slid his hands behind Harry to hold the small of his back, to press him closer. To take him in his mouth. Harry’s hand found his nape and clenched there. Draco heard rather than saw his lover’s head fall back. Harry swallowed: Draco heard that, too. He laved and sucked, not wanting to hurry, just wanting to touch. Go deeper until he couldn’t, until Harry was a part of his blood and breath and body, and he couldn’t extricate himself.

He felt Harry’s hands slipping into his hair. Twining there. Shaking. “Do you know how much I love you?” Harry whispered roughly. Draco felt the words bite all the way into his heart and down into each limb, each finger and toe. He caressed Harry with his tongue, pressing and drawing back with another soft suck. Harry’s fingers clenched.

“I’d marry you,” Harry choked out, “if that’s something you want.”

Draco felt the break in Harry’s voice even as the words sliced him apart. For a moment, all he could do was hold Harry to him and breathe, smell him, feel Harry’s heat flooding into his own body. He grappled his way to his feet and wrapped Harry in his arms, finding his mouth and shutting his eyes so tightly he saw colors.

He sought for something in Harry’s mouth to close the wound, in his taste and on his tongue. On his lips. But the yearning burned on. Draco clutched Harry’s shoulder, stroked his face. “Oh, _god_ , Harry—”

There weren’t words for all that he wanted. And at the same time, there was a word. Such a paradox. He kissed Harry hard, licking at his mouth, tilting his head to fit them together as closely as he could, savouring Harry until the flavour nearly drowned him. Harry held his face with both hands, and soon they dropped down, skidding frantically as if searching, fingers pressing at his shoulders and his hips and the back of his head. Draco arched into Harry, turning him in one fluid move, weaving his leg between his lover’s and backing him to the bed. Bending him down across it, never breaking the kiss. He pushed his hands into Harry’s pants and shoved them all the way down, yanked at his own fly until his bare skin touched Harry’s and he gasped.

Harry stared up at him, chest heaving as if he’d run a kilometer. Draco lifted his glasses off. Set them aside; he had no idea where. Harry’s leg jerked as he kicked his trousers away, and Draco whispered the spell before Harry stopped moving. Had his fingers inside Harry within the space of another breath.

Harry bit his lower lip and rocked into it. Draco slid an arm between Harry’s back and the bed, needing to feel the heat. He slicked himself with another murmur and gripped Harry’s hip. He felt Harry curl up toward him, felt it all along his spine as his muscles strained. 

It was a slow, long, breathless push, and then he was inside Harry and Harry’s mouth hovered against his cheek, wordless. Disbelief struck through Draco utterly.

“You’d…” Draco could barely meet Harry’s eyes. “You’d go. Just like that, pick up and leave everything behind?”

“Whatever keeps me with you,” Harry gasped.

Draco shook his head and touched an unsteady finger to Harry’s lips. Harry’s breath hissed over his fingertip, quick and heavy. He gathered Harry closer, slid both arms beneath Harry’s knees and snugged their hips together. Tried not to move; if he did, he would come, god, he was so close—

“You think I’d let you out of my sight?” he asked. His nose was so close to Harry’s. Only an inch away. He felt so weak, weak and shaking, how did Harry do this to him? So thoroughly and so quickly— Every time as if it were their first fumbling time.

Draco rolled his hips forward deeply, relentlessly. He felt Harry’s body hitch up over the sheets. Harry let out a broken groan. His eyes rolled up and closed. Draco did not pull back, but thrust even further, canting his hips up. Harry’s legs rose along his sides, thighs clenching. Draco pulled out a little, then gave a short, quick thrust. Harry exhaled a sharp word, the first.

He’d done it so many times before. Knew he was one of the only people to do it, to be inside Harry. It was perfectly familiar, the sound of his own name cracking across a heaved breath, feeling the humidity and the clutch of Harry around him. But the promise was deeper this time. It shook his very bones, what he knew he had in his grasp this time.

The skin across Harry’s shoulders and throat glistening plainly. His eyes opened, unfocussed and heavy with heat. He clutched Draco with both hands, sliding low over his backside, urging. Draco buried his mouth in the salt-tang of Harry’s throat and quickened their rhythm. Harry’s voice came again and again with each thrust, expelled and broken by each ragged breath.

“Dra… Draco,” he panted and kissed Draco’s forehead, tangling hands in his hair, cupping his nape, sliding all over. Draco felt Harry swallow, a ripple just beneath his tongue. He mouthed Harry’s throat, his chin and his jaw. His bottom lip. God, he wanted— There weren’t words, and yet Harry had said them, put it into words, and they rang so simply. He wanted to taste that, capture it on his tongue. He kissed the tip of Harry’s nose, then cradled Harry’s face in one hand until Harry’s eyelids fluttered open and their eyes locked.

Draco thrust again, touching his mouth to Harry’s. Kissing him. Snatching breath. Harry shuddered, full bodied and Draco knew it was coming, he could feel it building in the way Harry’s muscles clenched, the way his body shook. Two years; he would still have this. Have _him_. The epiphany knocked into his lungs and heart like a hammer and he let out a torn sound. Felt himself start to come. He slid a badly shaking hand between them and stroked once— Harry arched hard. Swept Draco’s climax from him.

It was the feeling afterward, of being between Harry’s legs and wrapped in his arms and against him, totally enveloped, that flooded Draco’s mind and stayed there, a shard through blissful fuzziness. He tucked his face into Harry’s shoulder and just breathed, smelling sweat, their sheets, himself on Harry’s damp skin. Harry’s hand rose sluggishly over his back, palm flat against his spine. Draco felt lips touch his neck.

He didn’t want to move; there was nothing in the world he wanted to do less. He could feel each of Harry’s breaths, deep and slowing, shifting his body as much as Harry’s. He pulled himself up with some effort, just enough to wave a hand between them, banishing the slickness. He looked down at Harry and found him looking back, cheeks flushed and hair mussed. Harry caressed his face with his fingertips. His thumb trailed over Draco’s lips.

Draco nodded. Harry’s mouth quirked faintly and he nodded back. His fingers stroked Draco’s temple in small, steady sweeps. Draco kissed the pad of Harry’s thumb.

“Don’t you ask me if I’m sure again,” Harry whispered. The room’s heat curled the words and Draco nodded.

“I won’t.”

* * *

In the morning, Draco quilled— and Owled— his finalised letter of acceptance.

~tbc~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: This is the last Arrangement fic I'm going to be posting for a while, and I think it's appropriate because it marks an ending, and the beginning of a new chapter of their lives, so to speak.


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